The Brooklyn Boys
by Morning Dew
Summary: FINISHED! About Spot's hardships as a leader, and the valuable lessons his newsies taught him.
1. Prelude

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
I never could find a fitting definition for 'individuality' until I became leader of the over 50 newsboys who made up the paper-peddling reign of Brooklyn, New York. Until then, it was my belief that every other person was merely a product of the same mold, a specimen that conformed to society's dictates. In my world before ink-smeared hands and headline hawking, no one ever stood out as their own character. I was led to conclude that the acclaimed canvas of life that was said to radiate shades of numerous pastels was no more than a fable, and mankind's tale no more than a print of monochrome gray.  
  
I guess I should begin with my life before I became a newsie. I lived with my younger cousin, Lucas, and his family for the better part of my life in a monastery where I attended private school and various church services throughout the week. It wasn't a glamorous living, but it wasn't one full of hardships either. In fact, I usually enjoyed it most the time. Yet even so, that ever soft whisper of freedom beckoned my childish mind to follow its guidance down an adventurous road. Soon after, I found that my days with Lucas' family were tedious ones, full of repetitive tasks and assignments that easily put me to sleep better than any soporific might have.  
  
Being fifteen years old was never easy, but finding myself confined to what my uncle and aunt wished me to be completely set me on edge. It was my life, after all. Shouldn't I have been the one calling the shots? Not to say I was not thankful for their love, for I would be eternally grateful for their having warmly welcomed me into their home, but I was growing restless and needed a change from the norm more than ever.  
  
Everything seemed predestined the way I was reared. Students wore the exact same uniforms no matter what their rank and our voices for the morning prayer merged into a sole monotonous tone that would make one think we were a single machine of some sort. We were taught free-thinking, yet whenever we practiced it, we were shunned for radical ideas that might put our family to shame. I was surprised the professors didn't have us marching to the same step when classes were dismissed for recreation and lunch.  
  
It became evident that this standard of living would never suit me. Everything was so predictable and I preferred an erratic lifestyle in which people lived their day as if it were their last. I felt like a wild bird, wrongly domesticated and put in a cage too small for my wings to expand to their full length.  
  
And yet, I have no idea what was scurrying through my mind when I left the only home I had ever known behind me and trekked off down the streets of New York with only the clothes I wore and a knapsack thrown over my shoulder. Looking back on it now, I have to admit, it was a blatantly stupid idea. What is it with fairly well-off kids thinking their life will be easier if they run away from the one that shelters and feeds them? Now nineteen, I still haven't a clue, and standing in Morningside Heights all alone those four years ago, I had already known I never would.  
  
The following weeks were filled with scrounging food from trash cans and sleeping on park benches under a starry sky that occasionally showered its tears upon me. At like times, I'd wrap myself with the wool blanket my aunt had knitted and huddle into an alley corner with only a slab of cardboard over my head to fend off the ammunition of rain. I always seemed to be hungry and as winter quickly approached, I knew my survival would be pulled into question.  
  
The solitude was incredibly unbearable as well. I was use to having a large company of friends to socialize and laugh with back at the monastery, but loneliness was to be my only companion then, and it was an endless struggle suppressing the longing for my family. Adventure no longer seemed a priority and this tumbleweed existence I was so eager to adopt was becoming less appealing as the days passed.  
  
If I hadn't met Italics, I probably would have labeled myself a hopeless fool who was better off under the wings of his family and would have returned home. You see, somehow, my tired feet had brought me across a bridge into the infamous borough called Brooklyn, the borough so many feared for reasons I didn't know. It was all the same to me, however. What did I care if I was fellowshipping with thieves and criminals if they were offering me a home that beat sleeping on the streets any day?  
  
I wasn't ten minutes in Brooklyn before I met Italics. He was the leader at that time; a tall well-built young man with raven black hair and dark eyes colder than frostbite. He looked at me then much like I look at new kids now, in a condescending manner that makes cowards of the faint-hearted and challengers of the brave. At fifteen, I met neither extreme and stood more in the middle, myself. We exchanged brief talk, which was basically a meaningless explanation of how I was a helpless ruffian-as if it weren't obvious enough by my mere appearance-and my need for a place to call my own.  
  
Italics brought me back to most dilapidated piece of bricks and wood I had ever seen in my life, a barely legible sign hanging uneven above a pair of splintered doors into which I was expected to walk. 'Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House'. I stood motionless upon the stoop with a gaping mouth, disbelieving that this is what I would be subjected to. The building was three stories high, at least a fourth of its windows missing panes, completely shattered, or boarded up. A stench emanated from its walls that smelled of smoke and beer; the place was a blasted sinkhole!  
  
But to a child breaking free from tradition's shackles, even the lowliest of circumstances seemed an outlet to greater things. So discarding my earlier shock, I followed after Italics and in doing so, took the primary steps towards the new destiny that awaited me.  
  
I won't bore you with the specifics. I soon after joined the newsboy masses and faced the realization that the proverbial 'grass' was not any greener on this side of the bridge, as so many come to grasp eventually. In fact, there was no greenery at all...only a perforating death. My selling talents, or lack thereof, threatened to end me as a wandering vagabond for all time when on my first day of peddling, I only managed to sell ten morning editions. My exceptional ability to involve myself in almost every fist-fight that erupted throughout the borough wasn't necessarily smiled upon, and my failure to comply with Italics' seething desire to deem me Brooklyn's scapegoat promised to banish me into exile.  
  
All in all, the life I had spent so many hours daydreaming about only proved to be a ghastly nightmare full of misery. No one talked to me or even offered me so much as a glance. Every day physically branded its memory onto me as the number of bruises I received from those who disliked me drastically increased. I felt like a recluse, abandoned and unwanted. I was beginning to believe I had been possessed when I left Morningside Heights.  
  
In time, I built a sturdy endurance that helped me deal. With a cool glare, I could drive away anyone, and I perfected a way of conducting myself that clearly told others one wrong word would send my fist into their face. It wasn't long until Italics even took a liking to me, and that was saying much, considering he didn't seem to like anyone in the short time I had known him. Sure he socialized with his newsies, but at the same time he always seemed distant to me, as if his world was another hell all on its own.  
  
In any case, after eight months or so, Italics and I actually became close friends. I soon learned that his alias came from his penmanship's slanted script. By then, a newsie name had already been bestowed upon me too. Spot. Yes I know, not nearly as daunting as 'Butcher' or 'Massacre' or any other name that evokes a sense of anarchy, but I wore it like royal garb nonetheless, for I rather liked what it represented.  
  
Back when I was still disrespected and treated as if I were everyone's scrawny little servant without a mind of his own, Italics put me to work cleaning up the lodging house during the day while everyone was off selling their papers. My attempts to 'improve the truth' and persuade passersby to indulge themselves with the headlines mirrored those of a failure and so I earned my wages performing manual labor.  
  
It was one particular day in which I had just finished mopping the floors of the main room when trouble was born. My timing was slightly off and so before the hardwood floor had time to dry, the Brooklyn crew was already filtering into the lodging house from a long day of work, their muddied boots leaving streaks and tracks as they went their way. They could care less, though. What did it matter to them if I was slaving away to keep the place reasonably clean? They even laughed at my futile efforts and feigned apologetic looks as they dirtied the place.  
  
I held the anger in, fearing I would only provoke a riotous brawl, and continued my rounds of mopping. During this time, a boy called Applejack- whom I absolutely despised and to whom I owe part of the glory for gracing my face with shiners-was busy taking out his wrath on seven-year old Pipsqueak, who barely spoke a word to anyone. It wasn't long until Applejack was socking the kid good, continuously slamming blows into Pipsqueak as if he were a punching bag. Blood dotted the floor and poor Pipsqueak was near dead by the time his assaulter was through with him. Applejack had a good laugh, as did his idiotic followers, and they sent the boy up to his room, threatening to kill him if word got out to Italics.  
  
Of course, the blood was still on the floor, however, and they seeing how I held means by which to erase the evidence with the mop only hardened their attitudes. "Heya kid," Applejack called out to me with a sneer, "ya missed a spot over heah!"  
  
Since I was still building my wit, then, I simply kept my mouth shut and ignored him. This didn't settle too well with him and he clearly showed it by jumping to his feet, marching up to where I stood, and slamming me against a wall.  
  
"Are youse actin' like ya don't heah me, ya little bastard?" He brought back a clenched fist and tightened his grip on me. I'm sure he was about ready to knock me out cold.  
  
Luckily, Italics finally arrived at the lodging house and interceded. He demanded an explanation from the both of us, listening intently to our words before ruling a verdict. I told him everything. I spilled about the jackass image Applejack was so beautifully portraying and about his cruel, abusive actions that only occurred in Italics' absence. I unveiled the matter of Pipsqueak's beating and backed up my claims by pointing out the blood on the floor.  
  
Applejack didn't get as bad a punishment as I wished he had, and from that day on we were always the worse of enemies. The main room cleared out for the afternoon edition and once again, I was left behind to tend to my duties. Before Italics left, though, he glanced at the blood on the floor and playfully reiterated Applejack's words. "Ya missed a spot. Clean it up, huh? I'se don't want me boiys thinkin' dis place is some kinda slaughter house."  
  
But I refused, and the damned spot was left unclean for the passing days until the wood had absorbed the blood and was permanently marked red. I wouldn't let the event pass that easily. Applejack should have been beaten to a bloody pulp that day! I was furious by Italics' poor decision to keep him in Brooklyn and it drove me mad that Pipsqueak's torture hadn't been avenged.  
  
More than anything, Italics thought it funny and thereafter I was known as 'Spot' for my melodramatic display of defense for the underdog.  
  
June rolled on by with its blistering heat when I found myself seated aside Italics on a platform just above the Brooklyn docks. The sun looked like a blinding gold coin and sent its rays down like fire. The boys leapt into the waters below as if it were their only means of survival while others merely lounged about playing any number of games. I was intrigued by the diversity of it all. Here, there were no restraints keeping one from doing whatever he wished and one was encouraged to be his own man, encouraged to proudly show his personality no matter how eccentric it might be. The newsboys were a family; I saw that in the way they helped and looked out for one another. But at the same time, they were a tapestry made up of countless different threads. It was remarkable.  
  
This is what I had been searching for all this time. A break from conformity, a release from the orthodox world of consistency. I could have returned home at any time, but like a neurotic daredevil, I found pleasure in not knowing what misfortunes could befall me any minute of the day. I liked not knowing where my next bite of food would come from or whether Applejack's brutal beatings would one day go too far and end me. It's insanity, I know. My aunt would let out a petrified scream if she read this; the nephew of a high priest turned a penniless lackey...by choice! But that's how the dices roll sometimes.  
  
"I saw another article in da papes fer youse, complete wid a picture and paragraph-long description. Ya parents must be missin' ya a lot, kid. Why'd ya run from them in da foist place?"  
  
I looked at Italics, a bit taken aback by the inquiry. An article about my sudden disappearance from Morningside Heights was repeatedly printed in the papers but I didn't think any of the others had noticed the story; I often wished they never would. A newsie usually wasn't asked about his past, no matter what the circumstances. He noticed my uneasiness and started to apologize but I shook my head, saying it was all right. It wasn't as if I had anything to hide. "Well, they's just wanted me tah be somethin' I aint," I replied, using the rough Brooklyn dialect I had taken to. "I mean, they's was nice and all, I aint never had a problem wid 'em, but...I dunno. Ya ever feel like ya life just aint meant tah be a certain way?" He nodded. "Well, dat's how I felt. Like I weren't s'pose tah be there."  
  
"Ya know how many of dese guys would cut off their arms if it meant they could have what youse were so willin' tah leave behind?" At first, I thought he was reprimanding me, but the grin on his face spoke otherwise. Then, just as abruptly as the conversation began, a new subject came up.  
  
"Youse is different from me other boiys, Spot. Ya got dis fire in ya that hasn't boined out yet. Ya don't take shit from no one, even if da guy's twice ya size and ready tah moider ya." He looked down at his hands as he cracked his knuckles in thought. "I'se can't be Brooklyn's leadah forever, ya know, and fer years, I always wondered who'd be da right kid tah take up da task. Then youse came along..."  
  
I gave him an incredulous look. Was he mentally sick? I was in no position to succeed him! "Ya gotta be kiddin' me! I mean, 'Talics, I'se can name at least ten guys who'd be better fer the job. I'se barely pushin' 75 papes a day now and almost all ya boiys hate me guts! Ya really think they's gunna give a damn if I tell 'em tah do somethin'?"  
  
He only laughed, but I saw no humor in any of it. "We'se don't all start out like heroes, kid. Some of is lucky if we'se even have three fans when we come into power. It's whether they's respect ya or not that makes ya great. Don't worry 'bout it, you'll do fine."  
  
No argument I concocted dissuaded Italics from making me his sole heir of Brooklyn. His mind seemed to be made up no matter what I said. He announced my succession first at a meeting with his allies from across New York, and then brought the decision out in the open to his own newsies one rainy day in August. I could feel the tension in the room when my name rolled out of his mouth while everyone had been expecting someone of greater seniority to be crowned leader.  
  
Applejack glared daggers at me and for once, I wasn't overjoyed to see him angered. Everyone was confused and bitter over Italics' choice, but he assured them I would live up to Brooklyn's name soon enough. They pressed their opinions all the harder, though. 'He's an amateur at sellin!' 'Da kid's only been a newsie fer a year!' 'Ya don't know nothing 'bout him, he could be a scab fer all youse knows!'  
  
No one dared question my fighting skills, and I suppose that was the only thing I had to fall back on the week in which the verbal assaults ensued. Occasionally, one of the younger newsies would come up to me in congratulations, but even they seemed to offer it half-heartedly.  
  
When I became leader, Brooklyn's numbers fell as Applejack had convinced at least twelve of his buddies to follow him to Queens where they hoped to never see my face again. Those who remained became careless and indifferent. Three already had been sent to the House of Refuge for pilfering food, and many more were on the authorities' bad side for a variety of reasons.  
  
For a month, I gave no orders whatsoever and simply secluded myself into my private little room where I spent the better part of my time. No longer was there this blind hatred, only a lack of care. They desperately needed a leader, but refused to enact commands given by the 'runt turn king' as one of them so indignantly put it. In time, however, the cynicism gradually left. In its place, a rudimentary form of respect developed.  
  
It wasn't until I received my first new kid in early September that things began to take a turn for the better. Brooklyn began to thrive and the boys finally accepted me as their own as together we created an infamous legend. With a new confidence surging through me, I showed them the leader they wanted, the fearless and violent young man they would grow to look up to. It was an agonizing and ridiculously long journey, but the destination was worthwhile when the name 'Spot Conlon' was recognized all over New York.  
  
That's the basic skeleton of the tale. I'll most definitely delve deeper into it later on, but I think it only proper that I devote the majority of this story to the boys who made me who I now am, and who taught me valuable lessons about life. Individuality was my first tutorial; it's what drove me miles from home into unfamiliar territory. But I also acquired definitions for the words "Patience", "Wisdom", "Courage", and most importantly..."Family". And it's with an honest heart that I say, these are truly what the priceless gifts of life are.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
More to Come! Next Chapter: The Frustration with Training Spies. ^_^ Leave a review! Yes, I know. I told someone I'd stop starting new stories in the middle of writing other fics, but I just can't help it. : ( It's like an addiction or something. *sigh* So I'll be writing this and "Just A Little Bet" for the rest of July. ^_^ Wheee! 


	2. The Birds

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
A.N: Thanks to all who have reviewed! And for those who are concerned, I DO intend on finishing "Just A Little Bet" and starting a sequel to "Confessions". Just not at the moment. ^_^ Anywho, this is a fairly LONG chapter. Have a nice read, and thanks again to: Gothic Author, Seraph, Hotshot, Dimples, Rachel, Spatz, and Lovable!!!  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
It would be the winter of 1898 when a new aspect of my high position would be served upon my plate. It's bothersome to be getting ahead of myself like this, but my network of spies deserve quite the lengthy entry, for my moments with them were indeed among the ones that most tried my patience, and so I won't spend too much time unearthing the vast details of my social ascent.  
  
It's a common misconception for one to believe that a newsboy's transition into leadership is executed smoothly. On the contrary, days tend to be hard ones and nights full of staying up late, wondering upon one's charges. For a while, I suffered from what has come to be called B.L.A (Borough Leadership Angst).  
  
My uneasiness set by Italics having suddenly left me alone for a higher- paying job as a factory worker, I was anxious about my own future. How would the Brooklyn crew take to me? Would they submit to my orders, or would they rise up against me? I grew so worried that I could hardly sleep, afraid that one of the boys would turn on me in the silence of the night. I avoided them as best I could. It wasn't my wish to rub it in anyone's face that Italics had chosen me as his successor, and I certainly didn't want to rouse any further hatred.  
  
The weeks couldn't have rolled by any more slowly. I sold alone, ate alone, walked across Brooklyn alone.........it was as if I were back to being a homeless ruffian the weeks following my departure from Morningside Heights. And I hated the fact that every night was poker night in Brooklyn for it only left me to recline into a moth-eaten chair and watch heated matches from afar while everyone else was dealt in and having a good time.  
  
There are two things to which I convey gratitude for the destruction of my emotional decline. One was a character development-which I will explain another time-and the other was the arrival of my first new kid, who ironically turned out to be my very own cousin, Lucas Conlon. Being the only one who had known about my desire to run away, Lucas had learned of my rise into power from speaking with his lower-class friends during recreation, and was beyond surprised upon seeing that I had made it well off after all. Jealous of my now free-born life and ever-growing fame, he had followed in my footsteps and now stood before me, wishing to be made a part of the Brooklyn company.  
  
I couldn't help but smirk. It was no secret my popularity was steadily growing across the state even if my own newsies failed to acknowledge me. Fights were ever common on the brutal streets of New York and I always was drawn to one like a wolf to blood. Knowing this, I would not subject my cousin to the destitute life I was blindly enjoying when he still had valuable years of schooling left in which to make something of himself. We debated over the matter for what could have been hours, and in the end it was unfortunately decided that Lucas would stay with me; he was dubbed a Brooklyn newsie that same day.  
  
He would return home on several occasions, only to keep running back to his refuge in Brooklyn each time-thus earning the alias 'Runner'. It was from this that I derived the saying, "Once a Brooky, always a Brooky".  
  
When the others saw how I socialized with Runner, they slowly began warming up to me as well. No longer was I some supernatural force to be reckoned with. For once, I was considered a 'human' and Runner was the bridge that let me cross over and embrace that mortality. I got to know each of the boys better, learning to identify them by their personalities and special quirks, and being a good listener when all they needed was to talk. Finally I had been accepted into their social circle, but they still gave me the space I needed to be their leader.  
  
Unbeknownst to me, this 'space' would incorporate various components of leadership I hadn't been trained to deal with. It was an ordinary December night in Brooklyn; the streets were lively with busy last-minute shoppers and my boys were celebrating the season on the docks under the dim lighting of nearby lanterns. Brooky's can really take you by storm sometimes. We shroud ourselves with ice-cold, apathetic demeanors and yet can still find the joy of a child within us during Christmas.  
  
In any case, the ecstasy of the night was shattered when Maverick and Renegade shoved a small boy called Fidget to my feet, angrily proclaiming that he was a traitor among us who had been feeding us lies for weeks. I wasn't certain what the situation called me to do, so I allowed Fidget to speak in his own defense. The boy was trembling with fear as he reiterated the charges my boys had accused him of and then verified with a heavy heart that they were, in fact, true!  
  
For a moment, I couldn't find the words to speak; so great was my shock. The punishment for betrayal was death but still young, I hadn't yet the passion for such cruelty. Instead, I decided to send Fidget back to his original borough with a warning that next time, I would not be so merciful.  
  
It was becoming painstakingly clear that my borough's safety would have to lie in the hands of a trusted group of Brooklynites when yet another spy, this one from Harlem, was unmasked in my presence mere days later. I set to work immediately. After studying my newsies with the eyes of a recruiter, I chose eight boys between the ages of 12 and 14 who would serve Brooklyn as messengers and scouts. They were small enough to fit into tight spaces and full of enough youthful vigor to dash away at incredible speeds if need be. Of course, the position was theirs for as long as they expected to be newsies for it would grow on them as I predicted it would, experience setting upon them like a second skin.  
  
I gathered them all in a secluded meeting room of the lodging house the day before New Year's Eve where they quietly sat as I drew up sketches of the state's major boroughs from memory, complete with underground paths in selected areas and highlights of those boroughs with which Brooklyn was allied. With a final jot down of the ideas possessing me and an inclusion of the traits I wanted my spies to have, my drafting was complete when I scribbled two last words at the top of the rough drawing. 'The Nest'.  
  
All but Runner received new names. They were: Jay, Raven, Hawk, Robin, Cardinal, Oriole, and Sparrow. Like the silent watchers that stalk mankind behind veils of shrubbery and leaves, these eight boys would be Brooklyn's Birds, their ears ever tuned in to others' conversations and their vision as sharp as a hunter's. Of course, they would have to be trained, and as the old saying goes, 'if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.'  
  
My hardest times proved to occur whenever I was working with mischievous Runner and his impish ways, the analytical nature of Oriole and his incessant questions, and bitter Raven with his complaints about the immaturity of the former two. Actually, come to think of it, every single one of them had a shortcoming that drove me mad! And that is why training would begin as soon as possible.  
  
We stood atop the roof of a newly-built edifice downtown, gazing out towards the horizon where we could see the smokestacks of various factories discharge clouds of pollution and smog into the air. I regarded the boys much like a schoolmaster might, my figure rigid and arms crossed behind my back. Seeing them lined up as so that first time reminded me of a ragtag assembly of miscreants and thieves, none of which were experienced in anything but looking out for their own selves. I would have to unite them in an unlikely brotherhood before any other priorities could be taken.  
  
So applying fancy words I had learned in my literature classes and stringing each utterance with a thread of theatrical exaggeration, I played at their anger for society wrongs and their hatred of scabs who double- crossed their own. It worked like magic, and once I had fired up a passion for loyalty in their hearts, the games were ready to begin.  
  
"Rule #1," I started, "Never let da enemy see youse, even if ya cover is blown."  
  
Oriole's eyes conveyed utter confusion. If his head weren't adorned with the velvety curls that were his hair, he wouldn't have appeared so childish. "Wha...?"  
  
"Dat means," I replied in my best critical tone, "dat if youse is caught by da enemy, it's ya job tah make 'em think they's seein' things. Catch me meanin'?" He looked even more confused but it was too early in the day for chastising. "It means cheese it 'fore youse put in a position that'll test ya allegiance tah me!" I suppose it might have come out more harshly than originally intended, but that was the least of my concerns.  
  
Runner snickered, wearing that roguish grin of his, emerald green eyes glimmering. "What if we'se get captured, though, and is threatened tah be killed if we'se don't spill 'bout who we soive?"  
  
I gave him a look that clearly said I wouldn't hesitate to fulfill any death wishes he had and he was damn near to cowering away, but when he saw the curiosity in the others spark at his query, I knew I'd have to indulge him with an answer.  
  
"Then ya don't spill a single woid, ya hear me? I'se don't care if da bastards is holdin' a knife tah ya throat! Youse even think of betrayin' me and I'll make whatever punishment they threatened youse wid ten time woise heah in Brooklyn!"  
  
Once again, Oriole's eyes made attempts at registering the statement; in the end, his inquisitiveness won out. "Ya mean you'd kill us?"  
  
"It's very likely," I answered him, with a cool urbanity that rendered them all speechless. I turned my back to them and gazed at the city below me, the crowds looking like miniature figurines in a girl's dollhouse. At least they were acting sensible now. I couldn't stand people who made jokes of grave issues, dismissing them as if they were nothing at all. "Tomorrow we'se startin' da day at 5 in da mornin'. Sharp." I smirked when the sweet music of their resentful groans reached my ears.  
  
The sun was just beginning to rise for another vigil as I led my Birds to Manhattan where we would jog down the trails of Central Park. There was good terrain there, and various elevations that would work the boys hard, fortifying their stamina. Sparrow impressed me the most during the sprint. Watching him was like watching a circus freak at Coney Island being shot from a cannon, the kid soared that fast! It was while wondering upon what he could have possibly consumed for breakfast when a distressful yell wrenched me from my thoughts.  
  
I spun around to see Robin sprawled out on the cold cement, his hands tightly clutching his left ankle. His face was flushed and I could tell he was fighting back tears of obvious pain. With a sigh, I hurried back to him and crouched down at his side to see about the problem, but he insisted that he would be fine.  
  
"I'm just e' bit clumsy," he told me in the rough Irish brogue I could hardly understand. "Ye dun have te' worry 'bout me. I'll catch up wid ye." He tried to struggle to his feet but only managed in collapsing onto himself a second time. My brilliant schedule now completely reduced to ruins, I cancelled the morning jog and announced that training would be postponed until a later time.  
  
While Robin's foot was still healing, he'd sit on the sidelines for the weeks of teaching that ensued. Back at the rooftop where we had begun, I next taught my eight spies the fine art of self-defense. Jay was definitely the best fighter. He moved with a grace I truly admired and had the strength to hold his own against numerous attackers should he one day become cornered in enemy territory. Then there were some boys who just put Brooklyn to shame.  
  
Oriole was up against Jay one round and could have relieved himself in his pants as terrified as he was. Every time Jay would step forward to enact a move I had demonstrated, he would scurry back a yard or so and widen his eyes like a startled animal. This juvenile game of 'chase' carried on for a few minutes until I grew irritated and put an end to it. "Oriole," I said, "what da hell d'ya think youse is doin'? Ya can't fight someone standin' six feet away from them!"  
  
Oriole looked up at me with those chocolate irises that would have made any other sensitive fool crack and replied, "But I aint a fighter, Spot. I'se don't like tah hoit people. It aint a nice thing tah do."  
  
Could there be another Brooky schmaltzier than that? The kid sounded like a sappy, over-romantic poet trying to sing his way out of war! I would have dealt him a dose of reality right then, but at that moment, Cardinal decided to finally grace us with his presence. "Cards, youse is late."  
  
"Yea I know," was his reply. "I guess I'se just lost track 'a time."  
  
"Well, that's the thoid time dis happened! Normally, I'se would beat the crap outta ya and see whether youse can keep time then, but since I'se not feelin' like shit today, Jay'll just do it for me." I often did that, set the Birds against each other as such. I'm not quite sure why, but it had something to do with believing that warriors are born only in the midst of conflict. Before I could see the boys reach their potential, I would have to give them mountains to overcome.  
  
Many nights during this period, I would set off for the streets of Brooklyn by myself and sort matters out in my head. Long walks tended to ease my nerves, for one doesn't have to deal with the pestering of company, and best of all, it was an escape from my leadership duties. It was like a breath of fresh air...absorbing the fragrance of a newly sprung rose. It was relief, and if I didn't take advantage of the liberation it offered me, the rage I had too long been bottling up would explode in a wrath.  
  
I didn't know how much longer I could deal with my eight spies. Some days I felt like ripping my hair out in large chunks; other times I wanted to scream obscenities to the highest obtainable pitch. They acted so difficult! Hawk and Raven, the eldest, vowed to talk my ears off with their whining about how I chose to orchestrate my lessons. 'Maybe you should teach the kids to shut their traps'. That was a common one. 'Are you going to let your cousin get away with that?' 'Oriole should be wearing diapers the way you baby him!' 'Why the hell do we need to know how to pickpocket?'  
  
You're probably wondering why I considered that last one a necessity too. No, it wasn't to encourage thieving or acceptance of loose morals, but rather to add a skill to the repertoire they would later draw from when assigned a borough. If any one of them were given a mission to acquire information about a particular leader, I could only hope to God they knew how to go about obtaining it in a secretive manner. And what if this leader was a clever one and stashed his written details in a safe, or in his very pocket! You see, I'm only equipping the boys for what inevitably could happen on the job.  
  
But they couldn't see that! They couldn't see that our morning jogs were meant to help them become faster. They never caught on with the fact that being experienced in combating would make all the difference when a band of jerks realized their true identity and wanted to endorse justice with their bare hands. Cardinal would never see the importance of punctuality, Oriole would never learn to seal his lips, Runner would never abandon his carefree ways, Robin would never part with his clumsiness, and Hawk and Raven would never cease to nag even when they were told that no one cared about their opinion!  
  
That leaves Jay and Sparrow. I don't even have to think twice to tell you they were my best spies since the start. Jay's piercing blue eyes soaked up everything they saw, and Sparrow had this devious style of sneaking around that could fool anyone. The others paled in comparison to this dynamic duo, and no greater instance can exemplify what I mean than the following.  
  
I was leaning my back against the brick face of a Seamstress shop and pretended to skim through the articles of the paper I held in my hands while Runner and Jay stood at either side of me like watchdogs. Little did they know, I was about to put them to the test. After a reasonable number of people had passed by us, I folded the paper, stuffed it in a back pocket, and turned to Jay.  
  
"Jay, did ya notice dat man in da derby hat? Tell me exactly what he looked like."  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, the facts spewed from his mouth in seconds. "Da derby hat was grey and 'e was wearin' a three piece suit wid a handkerchief in da chest pocket that had da initials 'T.W.' on it. The briefcase 'e was carryin' wasn't snapped shut and 'is shoes was made of leather. Eyes were brown, hair was black, and 'e had a split 'tween 'is front teeth."  
  
If I wasn't his leader, I would have loved to express how shocked I was by his detailed memory. I hadn't expected any of the boys to regurgitate information as well as he had! I nodded my head in approval and then faced my cousin. "Runnah, da Italian dat came outta Riley's Pub a few minutes ago, tell me what ya can 'bout him."  
  
"Uh..." Runner combed his fingers through his blonde hair and cocked his head to one side. "Well, he was wearin' some clothes...and, uh, he had some hair and all." His lips curved into a playful smirk. "And I'se give da guy credit, did ya see da goil 'e had on his arm! Damn! I'se could tell ya anything ya wanted tah know 'bout her!"  
  
I glared at him, controlling my want to destroy him. Of course, just as the day was starting to shine with Jay's sharp report, Runner had to summon the rain clouds forth. What really boiled my blood, though, was how he thought it all funny! He was laughing then, but later when I humiliated him in front of all the Brooklyn newsies by giving him a good soaking, all smugness was gone.  
  
And I mustn't forget the incident at Central Park. I wanted to assess any improvements Robin or Oriole might have made in the span of their training and so I took them to Manhattan where we observed a middle-aged couple sitting on a bench, chatting away the late hours of the afternoon. I instructed the boys that I wanted a word-for-word summary of the conversation being held and then sent them out one by one to achieve the task.  
  
Robin first crossed the street that separated us from the couple and then strolled down the sidewalk, whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets. Yet to even begin the assignment and he had already disappointed me. Does it ever cross a suspect's mind before a mystery is unraveled that whistling in distraction might perhaps make them appear that much guiltier? It frustrates me to no end!  
  
Anyways, Robin tried the facade of an innocent passerby but his cover was blown when the kid tripped over the feet of the couple he was suppose to be spying on! He toppled to the ground and once righted, smiled bashfully at them, only receiving a perturbed look on their part in return. I sent Oriole in next once Robin had retreated. He trotted off in that cheerful air of his, and walked directly up to the couple where he sat on the bench beside the woman and then stared at the two naively.  
  
"Don't mind me," he later claimed to have said. "Just go on and act like I'se aint heah." As would any sane person, the man and woman immediately arose and left.  
  
I knew putting the boys out now would only ensure their failure, but surely I couldn't leave Brooklyn unprotected. Talk was starting of how some riffraff had masqueraded as a Manhattan newsie for months before he was discovered as part of Midtown's brood. I wouldn't let the same thing happen to Brooklyn. Ever.  
  
So the next week, I assigned boroughs to each of my eight Birds, some receiving more than one area to supervise if the newsboys there were few or didn't reside in a lodging house. Jay was awarded the Bowery for perfecting his keen senses and I gave Harlem, Brooklyn's greatest rival, to young Sparrow. Though lacking in years, he was superior at his work.  
  
We decided that 'The Nest' would be our bi-weekly meeting spot, its location constantly changing to prevent familiarity and throw off stalkers. And with one last speech filled with advice and warnings, I sent them off for their first scout. Back then, I didn't see the mistake I was creating, but it would soon make itself evident as the hours progressed.  
  
The boys were supposed to report back to me that night at nine o' clock. Jay and Sparrow were early; I decided to give the others until Cardinal's arrival to show up, for I already knew his inability to keep time would make him considerably late.  
  
At 9:45, he still hadn't walked into the lodging house; neither had Hawk. I knew something was wrong and it didn't hit me until I remembered that Upstate New York-where both Cardinal and Hawk had been assigned-had recently issued a curfew that ordered all minors to be in their homes by eight. I slammed my fist into the wall for having not sooner realized this. It reflected my judgment poorly and was the type of blunder that could haunt one for the rest of his days.  
  
"Fellas," I addressed the six Birds that remained, "we'se gunna have tah bust our boiys out da slammer tonight." Raven made a bitter remark about how Cardinal's disregard for promptness had probably birthed the problem, but after receiving a nice shiner from yours truly, he shut his damn mouth quick.  
  
The operation would be a tricky one and the risk of being arrested ourselves for breaking curfew in that area only added to the jeopardy. But if I could somehow use my boys' limitations to our advantage...  
  
Runner couldn't take anything seriously, but Raven could and often went beyond the required mark. Pairing these two together would unquestionably result in a brawl, and very much needing a diversion, I shoved them to a street corner and told them to wait for my return. I wasn't a block away before I could hear them already disputing with one another, which in turn attracted a quartet of officers away from their beat to see about the problem.  
  
The streets in front the police station momentarily cleared, I posted Jay in a nearby alley and instructed him to sound the alarm should those officers decide to return before we were willing to leave. Then, with Robin, Sparrow, and Oriole in toll, we entered the building before us from the back, where I knew the offices would be vacant while a guard shift was taking place.  
  
In the lobby, about twenty men in navy blue uniforms that sported star-shaped badges lounged about snacking on pastries and drinking black coffee. Before I could head to the secure unit where youth were kept before being sent to the House of Refuge, these officers would have to be taken care of. "Oriole," I whispered to the boy beside me, "remember that one day youse was goin' on 'bout all the jokes you'd learn in school? And I told ya it weren't da time tah be ramblin' on like youse was? Well, dis is a poifect time!"  
  
I pointed at the officers and he, thinking it was all in good jest, nodded his head and strutted forward to join the crew. I peered through the crack in the door as he harmlessly walked up to the nearest man and told him the story of how his aunt had almost been buried alive one time. The officers were taken aback by Oriole's presence and first questioned him like interrogators, but when he had no answers to provide them with, the majority humored him by listening to his bizarre tales while the others filed a 'missing child' report.  
  
Now that they were busy thanks to Oriole's unending gibberish, I took Robin and Sparrow to the area where my Brooky's were being kept. The room was small with a stuffy air that made me crinkle my nose. Only one of its six cells were occupied, that one housing Cardinal and Hawk. At the end of the hall sat two guards playing poker while a third sat on a chair perusing through a nudity magazine. Every now and again, he would come across a page that apparently caught his eye and would fold out the poster to show his buddies who whistled and catcalled in return.  
  
I focused back on Cardinal and Hawk. Naturally, they were given the cell farthest away from the exit, thus increasing the difficulty level of this great escape by another degree, and for the life of me, I couldn't devise another fitting diversion. At least not until I remembered Robin was still in my company. In a low hiss, I told him to go to the janitor's closet across the way and retrieve as many empty buckets as he cold find, and to do all this silently. Of course, to Robin's subconscious, that last order is like deliberately telling him to wake up the whole block if at all possible.  
  
Three minutes later, the clamoring of metal objects banging across the floor sounded and the officers who had been playing poker immediately jumped to their feet and charged out into the main corridor as Sparrow and I took refuge behind a trash can. Robin poked his head out the closet, yelped at the sight of the two men, and took off in an effort to outrun them. The officers followed close behind, but this proved folly, for when Robin fell over himself while rounding a corner, they tripped over his body and were knocked out unconscious by the impact of the tiled floor.  
  
Robin crawled to his feet unharmed, and then climbed out a window onto the fire escape to join up with Jay when I gave him the signal to leave. Sparrow and I returned back to the doorway of the jail and before I could say anything, he sped across the aisle, skidded to a stop halfway down, and waved at the officer with the magazine.  
  
"Heya, copper!" he called out. "I bet ya can't catch me!" I took cover behind a fake plant while Sparrow zoomed off, the officer pursuing him. As soon as they were out of sight, I jumped to a stand and ran into the jail, waving to Cardinal and Hawk as I passed them by. I hurried to the officers' desk, snatched a skeleton key tied to a black cord from the nail upon which it hung, and with shaking hands, unlocked the cell door to set my boys free.  
  
I would always wear that key around my neck afterwards as a reminder of what could be achieved when a group of individuals look past their differences and work together for the better good. I don't know all that happened that fateful night, but somehow we all managed to regroup and flee from the clutches of our foe. Runner, Raven, and Sparrow had managed to outrun their men while Cardinal, Hawk, and I merely escaped the same way I had originally entered the station. Jay and Robin awaited our small company in an adjacent alley, and little Oriole feigned tiredness so that when the officers he had earlier been entertaining left him to peace, he awoke from his would-be sleep and simply walked out the front door.  
  
After this episode, my Birds at last started to take to their work sincerely. They even insisted on an intense one-week training session in which they desired to re-learn the basics and master each skill I had tried to been teaching them all along. In no time, they were completely different young men-their new character the absolute opposite of what they had once been. Brooklyn became renowned for the accuracy of its crafty spies, and the boys themselves became people I could trust my very life to.  
  
Some might define patience as calm endurance during a trying time, or tolerance through which understanding is obtained. I don't dismiss either of these statements as faulty, but to me, patience means so much more. It's holding on even when you're ready to let disappointment get the better of you. It's holding your tongue to repress the criticism and debasing words that would otherwise come out. It's shunning the disbelief of others because you know what you're working for and you won't give up when your goal is almost nigh. My favorite of all, it's kindling the hope that lives within you-sometimes as a meager flame, other times as a raging wildfire- despite negativity, shortcomings, or impending doom because you can already see your prize ahead of you and the finish line is just out of reach.  
  
"Me boids is been choipin' in me ear." I say that phrase more than I ever thought I would. Everyone knows how proud I am of them. Only a few know of the trials I've conquered alongside them. In the end, when I look back on it all, I say without regret that it's all been worth it. I made eight of my best friends, gave Brooklyn the root of its strength, came out a better leader, and learned patience in a whole new context. A lesson I will remember for all time.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Review Please!!! ^_^ Please leave reviews! More Reviews=Faster Updates! YaaaaY! Next Chapter: The Trouble with Being an 'Older Brother' Figure. 


	3. The Halfpints

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
As I've earlier mentioned, there are two things that aided me in the rising to my potential to become the fearless young man many would revere across New York. First, there was Lucas and the open opportunity to apply that primeval -elder's right to scold- ordeal in chastising him whenever it suited me. Through this, the others realized I would not be lenient in all things, especially things that would inevitably determine my boys' character as Brooklyn newsies. I'd learn at a young age that discipline was the key in raising strong individuals and I would never dismiss that fact.  
  
But my fining ways weren't the sole basis for the altitude I was steadily gaining on the social scale. It would be the night of my sixteenth birthday when I brought to the Brooklyn lodging house a young lady I had met while peddling papers. Her name was Kristen; quite the charming dame with her contagious laughter and endearing personality. When we entered the lodge hand in hand, lost in a mindless conversation, my ears instantly picked up the lack of sound in the main room. Having been stunned by the silence, I looked up and was greeted by the startled faces of about a third of my boys.  
  
I didn't blame them for their astonishment, though, for up until that moment I had never been much of a flirt or 'skirt-chaser'. Something in the way they conveyed their admiration towards me then filled me with a growing power that assured me nothing would ever be out of reach for the leader of Brooklyn. Once the surprise had passed, they smirked at my accomplishment and even began whistling and catcalling, only causing Kristen to blush profusely and bury her face onto my shoulder.  
  
I nodded at my newsies and led the girl to my room upstairs, my mind still dwelling in the new territory it had claimed. It was a wondrous feeling. I had no intentions of furthering my advances on Kristen but somehow the room had been filled with a sexual tension birthed from what the others expected us to do, and reveling in my newfound respect, I didn't mind the anticipation at all.  
  
From then on, I would make it my business to seduce any girl that crossed my way into offering me her company for the night, and behind every effort my boys would root me on with the utmost support. Once I had unleashed my charm, newsies everywhere knew me for it. I wasn't just Spot Conlon anymore, I was the infamous womanizer who could have up to three different flings in one day and have three new dolls on his arm by evening.  
  
The female population of the state both adored and despised me. The former because they knew they could never win my heart and the latter because the ladies were more like tally marks to me, ways to flaunt my authority. I never cared for any of them, never loved them. It was all a mere game, and they were the pieces I had no problem with manipulating. I admit it wasn't as admirable as I had been blinded into believing it was now that I look back on it, but such was life, and one day I'd put it behind me out of disgust...yet also out of love.  
  
Of course, I'm mistaken in claiming that all my boys were enthralled by my heartless manners with the women for there was a certain group of Brooky's that could care less whether I had bedded six dames, or sixty! Never mind they were too young to even begin taking notice of the opposite sex, for that's beside the point. These fifteen 'half-pints', as I like to call them, esteemed me in other ways and appreciated those qualities of my disposition I had worked so hard at hiding for years.  
  
The youngest of them were between the ages of five and seven, their rightful names being Runt, Blue, Detail, Two-Scoops, and Chips. It always pained my heart looking upon their faces for I was constantly filled with pity for their future. These were children who should have been in school, acquiring an education that would sustain them once they were adults! They deserved to be doctors, and lawyers, and bankers, not a lowly factory worker like the one I would one day become, earning a minimal wage that would have me starving for days until my next pay.  
  
Fate has a wry sense of humor, however, and so apparently these young ones weren't meant to value any luxuries. It is perhaps for this reason that I guarded them more closely than the others, sheltering them with a fierce protection-though only when no one was aware of it.  
  
I can't quite choose a favorite among them, but I know the most memorable story I was ever told was given to me by Blue. Blue was tall for his age, with raven black hair and dark eyes that seemed consumed by sorrow. When first he had been brought to Brooklyn by one of the older boys, he was constantly brooding, and resulting to insensitivity I had originally thought him unwilling to face the reality of his low class standings.  
  
Nights later, he came to me while I was star-gazing on the roof of the lodging house and plopped down beside me, freely crying. Taken aback by this humble display, I looked about me to make sure there weren't others present and then draped an arm over his shoulders.  
  
"What'sa mattah, kid?" He didn't answer me until I had asked a second time, and rubbing his eyes with deep breaths, he told me of the father he hated. He told me how this drunkard of a man had robbed him of all things he had ever held dear in his life. He told me how the bastard had beaten Blue's mother to death, leaving him in unvarying fear for his life. The final burden was laid the night Blue escaped his father's clutches. The man had seized Blue's only companion-a mongrel puppy named after the boy-by the scruff of the neck and had held his frail body of fur down in a sink full of freezing water until the animal ceased to move and suffocated.  
  
Then the man had turned on Blue, but the boy had tired of the mistreatment and abuse, and had made a run in hopes of being dealt a new hand of cards from life. Maybe Blue's story won't ever be an award-winning tale in your collection of records, but I understood something more clearly that night. Not all my boys were blessed enough to come from backgrounds as my own...as a matter of fact, the majority of them were results of misfortunes, strife, and unavoidable troubles, but as their leader I would somehow have to meet them on common ground.  
  
The only way to accomplish this was merely to be there for them when they needed to rant about their hatred concerning anything from family members to the drudgeries of hawking headlines. And so aside from being a role- model of some sort, I would be a friend to them as well.  
  
Chips and Detail were known for the way they spoke. Chips, originally from England, spoke with that rich accent that would make one wonder why he wasn't exchanging small talk about politics with the aristocrats. Detail...basically, this kid rambled on and on, the words emptying from his mouth like honeybees escaping from their hive for a day's work. Half the time, you couldn't even decipher what the hell he was talking about until you heard him repeat it three times over. More than anything, though, he found it necessary to give everyone the 'details' behind everything. He was like a newspaper loaded with stories anxious to be told.  
  
Runt's name came from his being the shortest five-year old one might ever meet and Two-Scoops received his alias during a leisurely stroll through Central Park, before which he had purchased an ice cream cone from a parlor. Displeased by the small amount of ice cream he had been dealt, he whined at the top of his lungs until the manager was convinced to add a second scoop to the cone. God, I love that kid.  
  
To these five young boys, I was a would-be older brother, someone who chased away the monsters under their beds when they couldn't sleep or who stayed with them until they had fallen asleep to make sure the shadows in their room were just that. Naturally, the others thought I was going soft and criticized me for my sappy behavior, which accounts for why I avoided audiences when showing others that I cared. Eventually, the time would come when Blue, Chips, Detail, Runt, and Two-Scoops would have to grow up, but seeing how they helped me embrace the empathy in me, I wouldn't be the one to shove them ahead of their time.  
  
Then, of course, there were those who simply annoyed me to no end. Barely ten years old, these kids represented all types of New York's classic grief- stricken impoverished accounts. They also were specimens I could've sworn were specially sent to test my wisdom, considering the large number of disputes I had to settle in which they were involved.  
  
Truth, Vampire, and Brat set me on edge the most. It all started one summer morning before the 1899 Newsboy Strike when Brat started complaining in that crabby mood of his about how Runner had dumped a bucket of water onto his face to awaken him. Tempted to laugh at the matter, I instead heard him out and assured him it would be taken care of. Before the afternoon editions were fresh off the press later that day, a rumor had been spread throughout the borough by Truth (named so because he never tells it) that I intended on exiling Brat from my territory on the grounds that he had brawled with Vampire unfairly.  
  
This in turn led Brat to believe that Vampire had fabricated some untrue story and was now trying to force him under my wrath. Infuriated, Brat passed up the afternoon edition and confronted Vampire on the docks where the two fought like bloodthirsty avengers. Vampire was in the process of...well, sinking his teeth into Brat's hand when I had finally arrived at the scene.  
  
As Italics before me had done, I listened to each of their defenses and sides to the story before punishing them.  
  
"Oriole told me dis joik had plans tah kill me!" Vampire yelled. "Didn't ya see 'im just now?"  
  
"Bullshit!" screamed Brat. "I aint the one tryin' tah be Spot's second in command!"  
  
"What da hell is youse talkin' about!?"  
  
I hope you're aptly noting the chain reaction that was taking place and how a single grain of falsehood can quickly evolve into radical lies. They lunged for each other yet again, and this time I only watched, wondering how I could possibly weave my way out of this scandal. That's when an idea befell me. I knew Vampire and Brat loathed each other for their differences, but would a week of being forced to sell together change that?  
  
From the start, I knew the plan wouldn't roll smoothly. Brat's golden hair and bright eyes weren't the only things that made him up to be the complete opposite of Vampire, with his long black locks and dirt-colored irises. Any conversation with two sides of a debate was theirs for the taking and once the arguments started, they were at each other's throats.  
  
Sometimes, when one sold better than the other, the latter would throw rocks at him from a distance, trying to scare him from his selling spot. Other days, they'd tell lies to the police forces just to see the other arrested and carried off to the Refuge. Every night, they came home with new battle marks.  
  
A change occurred after five days. The bickering stopped, as did the fistfights. No longer was there extreme dislike...only a lack of interest. They regarded each other as if they were strangers stranded on the same island, aware of the fact that they'd have to work together in order to swim off. When their punishment was over at the end of the week, I was surprised to see them still selling together, though neither of them ever acknowledged it. A month later, they were the best of friends.  
  
When the others saw this, they commended me on having been wise enough to foresee the outcome of my reprimand. Honestly, I hadn't foreseen anything! I'd merely relied on a chip of wisdom I had gathered from my schooling.  
  
Another instance that allowed me to practice some of this obtained wisdom occurred when Trouble and Julian ran up to me while I was selling papers one day, Julian angrily proclaiming in between gasps of breath that Trouble had stolen his pet grasshopper. I didn't remember ever saying the boys were allowed to keep any pets in my lodging house, but I didn't press the matter.  
  
"Trouble," I said easily, "give it back tah 'im, huh? Why ya guys always gots tah make an issue outta somethin'?"  
  
Trouble shook his head and clasped his hands more tightly over what I presumed to be the insect in question. "It doesn't belong tah 'im! Hops is mine!"  
  
"Ya such a liar!" Julian stepped forward to the boy, looking ready to initiate a scuffle. I groaned in exasperation, dropped my papers to the street curb, and came between them. One of them had to be lying...but who was I to choose the culprit?  
  
"Hops is mine," Trouble went on, "stop tryin' tah take 'im from me! Youse is just jealous that I'se was the only one able tah catch a bug in the fields!" I was almost sure he was the lawful owner when he uttered those words, but then Julian spoke up.  
  
"Yeah right! You wish youse could catch bugs as good as me! That's da reason ya took Hops from me in da foist place!"  
  
The situation reminded me of a Bible story we had been taught at school in which two women had approached a king, each attesting to be the mother of a baby one held. Unsure who was telling the truth, the king told them that since this unending battle was getting them nowhere, he would simply decide to cut the baby in half, so that each woman could have their share of the child. The first woman was indifferent to the decision; the second begged the king to reconsider. And it was only until then that his highness knew the second woman was the true mother.  
  
"Alright," I said, about to apply the same method. "Since youse can't decide on anything and neither a' youse is tellin' me da truth, I'll just kill Hops. Then ya both can go and find some other bug tah keep as a pet."  
  
Trouble seemed displeased but only shoved the grasshopper into my hands. "Fine! Go ahead, I'se don't care!"  
  
"No!" Julian dropped down to his knees, his wide eyes tearful. "Please, Spot! Please! Don't kill 'im! I'm sorry, give 'im tah Trouble if he wants it so bad, but just don't kill 'im! Please!"  
  
Hops was restored to Julian's possession and Trouble received a nice shiner from me. It was remarkable how this 'wisdom' was gracing me with its knowledge. It made me feel like I was worth something, and I was thankful for the elders who had taught me back at school.  
  
The rest of my half-pints were Tumbleweed, Rain, Mute, Centerstage, and Stitch. It makes me glad to say that this quintet didn't pester me as much as the rest. They were actually quiet, good-natured kids who bothered no one. Tumbleweed had a good sense of humor and was known for his indecision in choosing any one selling spot, thus his name. Rain, who liked stormy weather, usually kept to himself or to the notes he was endlessly writing. We never quite figured out to whom those notes were addressed, but it was my guess the writing was merely a release for his mind.  
  
Mute was born with the inability to speak. None of us were learned in medicine so we didn't know whether that meant he lacked vocal cords or a tongue, but it didn't matter for we treated him equally. He communicated with us through hand gestures, but only when the little notepads he purchased from a bookstore were out of paper. Centerstage was destined to one day be an actor. He loved the glory of attention and was always overdramatic in his conversations and monologues.  
  
Then there was Stitch. Among the youngest group of my brood, he was the one I admired the most. He'd been a Brooklyn newsie for three years and always liked the darker areas of our territory where our borough's border lines met with those of our enemy's. He was of tough stamina, with a take-no- prisoners attitude that could have rivaled mine were we of the same age.  
  
It was one particular night when he was meandering through the parts of Brooklyn that touch the Bronx when a pair of idiotic goons shoved Stitch into an alley, repeatedly kicked him in the stomach, and then swung a wooden bat into his face. A Bird notified me of the assault and I was there in minutes.  
  
We took Stitch to a health clinic where a doctor who had treated me as a child had been promoted to chief physician. Out of kindness, he treated the boy free of charge, closing the wound on his face with ten stitches. From this, Stitch received his newsie name and was thereafter proud of it whenever one spoke it.  
  
The half-pints, if anything else, taught me to not be so quick in losing my childhood. In a way, I relived it through them. I learned that in all things, the best man wasn't necessarily the strongest one, or the one with the dirtiest mouth, but more so the one with the biggest heart. And with this wisdom, I would be able to adopt new ways of leading my boys, ways that didn't involve pain and tears.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Next Chapter: The Troublemakers! ^_^ Leave a review! I love Reviews! 


	4. The Troublemakers

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
A.N. Thanks for the reviews! Concerning Mute, Spot never said he was a newsboy. True most of the Brooky's in the lodging house make their living peddling papers, but some have little jobs on the side as well. Let's just imagine Mute's a shoe-shiner or a potato-peeler at Tibby's, or the kid who cleans the lodging house just as Spot once did. ^_^ w00t w00t! 2 more chapters after this and we're done! Mucho thanks to all of ya'll who've read!  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
I wouldn't be surprised if this entry turned out to be quite lengthy, for every Brooky is a troublemaker at heart and it would take volumes of narration to tell you about every prank ever pulled in my notorious borough. And so, I'll save you the time and merely speak of the 'masterminds', those I hold responsible for the craziest nuisances I ever came across. No doubt Runner is the first to come to mind. I find myself mentioning him numerous times, but if you knew him as do I, you wouldn't fail to plug his name and deeds into every conversation you conducted.  
  
In any case, Runner lived for mischief, and with his best friends Matches and Mason he made an unruly band of rogues. Matches and Mason were identical twins, this gift from nature the main basis of their jokes; they loved to fool people into thinking one was the other. I nearly broke from sanity with those two scurrying about like imps until I noticed a difference between them. Mason had a split between his two front teeth whereas his brother did not. From then on, they never deceived me again, much to their disappointment.  
  
Matches was a pyromaniac obsessed with setting things aflame; you'd never accuse him of arson, however, for his wavy tresses and sparkling amethyst eyes deemed him a most unlikely suspect. He thrived on this defense and proceeded to wreak havoc whenever he could. Mason wasn't as infatuated as his brother with fire, but he did enjoy a good laugh now and then.  
  
Then there was the other trio. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck might as well should have been born connected at the hip as inseparable as they were! They weren't related at all, but at first glance, you'd bet your bottom dollar that they were. They sold together, ate together, played games together; their friendship was indestructible. And unlike other groups of comrades, there really wasn't any leader among them, for each had a wit to match the other and each contributed to the whole's schemes as equally as the next.  
  
Their greatest prank had been two weeks in the making, or so I'm told by Hotdog. Anyways, it was an ordinary evening at the lodging house with the elders staying up late in the main room and the younger Brooky's heading off upstairs for a good night's sleep. It was just past midnight when a blaring shriek pierced the air and set those of us lounging around on our feet immediately. We raced up the stairs three steps at a time and hastened down the main corridor.  
  
Now because we're so great in number, our lodging house consists of two separate bunkrooms. Usually, boys under the age of thirteen sleep in the quarters to the right, while the ones over thirteen sleep to the left. Even so, we still keep the doors to both open so it really makes not a difference; I suppose the rules help with organization. Getting back on track, by the time I had reached both doorways, my boys came streaming out in their long-johns, yelling and scratching at themselves as if they were trying to shed off their skin.  
  
I stood there befuddled, but still managed to laugh at the hilarity of it all. Soon after, the second room emptied out as well, the boys following the same suit. They scraped at their skin irritably, throwing themselves against the walls and onto the floor, practically pulling their hair out.  
  
Runt and Blue were crying, their arms red with soreness. "Spot!" the latter whined. "There's...bed bugs!" At first I was skeptical, but when I entered one of the rooms to follow up on his claim, I saw the pestering little critters spread across the mattresses and floors like black confetti.  
  
"Holy crap!" I ran out into the hallway, seized a broom from Mr. Scaparti's maintenance closet, and re-entered the quarters smashing the broom about as if it were a paddle. When I realized my attempts to rid the lodge of the bugs was futile, I retired to the main room where the others awaited my orders, still scratching away.  
  
While I stood in thought, wondering what we could possibly do, I caught notice of Hotdog seated on a table without a worry on his face. Leaning on the wall beside him were Rascal and Aleck, and when I squinted my eyes through the dimness, I realized they were snickering! Also, unlike the rest their skin wasn't irritated.  
  
Needless to say, they were rightfully punished; no eleven-year old boy considers dishwashing a water sport. Though Brooklyn has countless counterparts to Manhattan's Tibby's, we have a concept of money and choose most days to dine in our own place and devour home-cooked meals, courtesy of our lodge keeper. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck would have to clean up after us for seven tiring days.  
  
The night of the bedbug incident, all fifty-two of us camped out on the docks to sleep after, of course, the majority had soaked themselves in the freezing water to soothe the bite pains. The next morning, Mr. Scaparti contacted a pest control agency, and the problem was taken care of by the time we came home from selling our second load of papers. Hotdog later told me that he and his companions had espied a trace of the bugs in a corner of the basement and rather than notifying someone immediately, they instead had decided to keep it a secret so that they could use the critters for the very prank they had successfully pulled. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't strangled these kids yet...  
  
Then there's Con and Pirate. Con always presented himself in a high class fashion, wearing clothes that fit him well and were always clean. His short brown hair was every day neatly brushed, his face never dirty, and his boots never lacking in shine. At first I thought it his belief that appearance is what won a newsie customers while hawking headlines, but begot by my curiosity one day, I learned of the enigma that he truly was.  
  
Although Con purchased twenty-five editions every morning, he wouldn't even begin selling them until late afternoon when all the business gents were making their way home. The other ten or so hours of his day, on the other hand, were spent elsewhere. Once, I had seen him sneak into a theatre and then come back out onto the streets dressed in a navy blue uniform. Then he would walk up to the lady in the box office, inform her that their manager- whose name I never caught-had bid her permission to withdraw from her duties early, and when she had gone would take up the selling of tickets from there!  
  
You might be wondering how any sane woman could be fooled into believing that a young boy was told to relieve her from her work, but the theatre had been sponsoring an ongoing apprenticeship for future entrepreneurs in the arts, and so it is my assumption that the lady thought of Con as one such apprentice. Well, Con would work for hours and at the end of the day was actually benevolent enough to at least leave the theatre half of their earnings; the other half he pocketed.  
  
I was so impressed by his fine methods that I never alerted him to my knowledge of it. Besides, it probably would only steal the fun from him if he knew his cover had been blown. His adventures were many and I won't delve into the stories of each, but on Christmas morning when our makeshift little tree was surrounded by loads of gift-wrapped boxes, each addressed to a certain Brooky, I didn't even have to think twice to know that Con had played Santa Clause this time around.  
  
I caught up with him an hour later and saw that he hadn't even purchased a gift for himself. Filled with holiday cheer, I handed him my very own slingshot, hand-carved from maple wood with a skill I had inherited from my father as a child. This proved a mistake, though, for soon everyone was wanting a slingshot of their own and it wasn't long before every Brooky had learned how to carve the weapon from a simple tree branch. That winter, a few more of our windows shattered and everyone was always ready to duck down should a shooter zoom by their way in a deadly aim.  
  
Pirate was an odd character that just made me wonder. Either this kid was constantly entertaining his imagination, or he seriously suffered from psychological problems. After meeting a newsie named Kid Blink from Manhattan, Pirate obtained a sudden infatuation with wearing eye patches, bandanas, and tying stuffed parrots to his shoulder. He would stumble over the words to books like 'Treasure Island' and then try to imitate his best buccaneer accent.  
  
On occasion, he'd carry the act much too far. Living up to the great bandit legends he had read about, he took to stealing and lying. I probably wouldn't have cared as much if he had taken his treachery elsewhere, but when he started pilfering from our pockets, robbing us of the small change we had made during the day while we slept, I knew something had to be done.  
  
None of the others were too pleased with being short of money when they shoved their hands into their pockets to retrieve payment for their papers, and when the idea that a thief was among us began to spread, I could sense dissension among us begin to grow. But as all crooks do, Pirate started to become clumsy in his work, and a mere three weeks later, I had caught him in the act. Such trouble he had caused me! And when he revealed to us that he had spent all our money gambling at the racetracks, we were enraged.  
  
Comedy relief laid in the hands of two individuals who weren't troublemakers in as grave a sense as the others. They were Joker and Chance, close companions since their days in the orphanage. With roots in an Italian culture, Joker was always up for amusing audiences and was a master at card tricks. Chance, to put it in blunt dictation, wasn't. And so whenever he'd fumble a trick, he'd always ask the boys to give him another 'chance' in proving his sleight of hand.  
  
Tired of childish games one day, they decided to host their own imaginary radio show, broadcasted live each Wednesday in the main room of our lodging house. They'd set up a table and chairs and read to the younger ones details about the news and such. Knowing their show was headed for boredom, then, they began integrating other things into their show. Before I knew it, Joker was suddenly a talk-show host with a live audience and guests who were battling real issues.  
  
I remember the first 'episode' concerned Runner's belief that it was an injustice living in the same household as Maverick and Renegade-both of whom loved to torture those they thought inferior. But, oh how disarray followed when the two feared Brooky's had walked in earlier than expected only to hear others speaking curses against them. Runner fled out of that room as if hell was on his heels, and Joker stood at the head of his audience speechless. I was able to prevent a brawl that day and hoped that everyone had learned a lesson...what wishful thinking!  
  
Chance had come up with a new proposal for the show which featured Scapegoat-oldest of all us Brooky's-teaching the boys how to stand up to bullies like Maverick and Renegade. He was indulging them with everything from great fighting moves to well thought out comebacks when a tap on his shoulder interrupted him. When he turned around, Maverick was in his face. Now you'd think something of this sort couldn't possibly occur twice, but it most certainly could and most certainly did.  
  
The biggest in-house fight ever known to Brooklyn was encountered that day as a spirit of anarchy filled us all and moved us to fistfight with whoever happened to be next to us merely for the hell of it! You must excuse our ruffian proclivities, but events such as this just happened without warning most the time, and we desiring to better our resilience let the tides carry us. It wasn't in any form a practical joke, but by the end of the day, we were brothers once again laughing the affair over.  
  
I remember one practical joke that wasn't humorous in any form whatsoever. The lovely Medda from Irving Hall was hosting an all out celebration for the newsies to commemorate the strike on its one year anniversary. Even those who hadn't been involved with the movement of 1899 were invited; hundreds of boys across the state showed up, as did a number of girls. Those too young to stay up so late were sent to Manhattan where an elderly man by the name of Kloppman would watch them.  
  
It was an extraordinary night busting at the seams with laughter, merriment, drinks, and fellowship. A few poker games broke out, some of which I won, and we were even entertained with a cabaret show. It was all so very exhausting, and I didn't start the long walk back to Brooklyn until 2 in the morning. I was accompanied by some of my boys, though a good number of them had left earlier and probably were already asleep by the time I was crossing the Bridge.  
  
My mind blasted, I decided I would do role call at dawn when I woke up everyone for the morning edition. It'd at least let me sleep some, and would also save me the trouble of having to deal with fifty-one newsies walking every which way around me. I'd already sent Scapegoat to pick up the half-pints from Manhattan, and so I really didn't have much to worry about.  
  
Or so had been my thinking until blocks away from the docks I could already see monstrous flames engulfing the night sky, smoke looming about like a demon hungry for lives. My casual saunter became a desperate run as I dashed down the streets in a complete panic, praying that no one was hurt, but most of all, that the unlucky building was not the one that sheltered my boys.  
  
My prayers had been denied. The Brooklyn lodging house was steadily being reduced to blackened wood, some sections of the edifice crumbling down and sliding into the river where it drifted off or sunk. I saw Runner up ahead and hurried up to him, pressing him inquiries about what had happened and whether everyone had gotten out safely.  
  
He couldn't find the strength to answer me; in fact, he looked utterly petrified as if he thought I'd blame the matter on him! At the time, it hadn't dawned on me I had every reason to blame him. His face was pale, even his eyes taking on a pastel shade I had never seen and his gaping mouth produced not a single word.  
  
A squad of firemen eventually came. By then I was surprisingly calm, but only because I had thrice taken a head count once Scapegoat had returned with the others and had reached fifty-two, counting myself, each time. The squad was able to save the dried out carcass of our home, which was in the end, better than nothing at all. The framework of doors and such were but bundles of splinters, the staircase collapsed in the middle, giving us no way to reach the second floor until days later, the keeper of our building- Mr. Scaparti- was able to obtain from the city several ladders.  
  
There wasn't much to see on the second floor, though. Most of the bunks were only piles of ashes now and the floor was covered with rubbish and debris; it was a wonder it hadn't caved in as well! Months later, Mr. Scaparti would receive a loan from his bank which would enable him to have our place rebuilt, but the mystery as to how the fire had started would be kept secret...until Runner came up to me one day at Tibby's in all seriousness and asked to speak with me in private.  
  
I excused myself from the table where I had been seated, dismayed that I would miss Jack Kelly's joke, but followed Runner to an empty booth near the back and followed suit when he had sat down.  
  
"So, what's up?"  
  
He diverted his gaze to the chalkboard menu placed on each table and then began playing with the salt shaker at his left. "Uhm, I wanted tah confess somethin' tah youse."  
  
I smirked, fully expecting this to be a set-up. "It's okay, Runnah. Youse aint gotta say it. I know I'se da better Conlon." When he didn't laugh, or at least roll his eyes as he often did when I bragged, I knew something was really bothering him. I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. "You okay, kid?"  
  
He locked his eyes on mine and spilled it all out in a jumble of words. "The day youse and the fellahs went tah see Medda and all, and I had stayed behind wid Matches and some of the others, well, we'se kinda did somethin' we shouldn't have. Ya see, we'se was darin' each other tah do different kinds of things, and when it came my turn tah dare someone I chose Matches. I dared 'im tah start a fire in the lodgin' house. It weren't suppose tah be a huge one, just a lil' one that we'd be able tah stop.  
  
"Well, he took out one of them matches he's always carryin' around and started one up right there. We'se was in the bunkroom and didn't think it'd make a difference, but when he set a few papes on fire, the flames climbed onto the sheets of one of the beds. We freaked out and ran tah pump water from the washroom into a bucket. By the time we'se had come back tah the room, the fire was spreadin' tah the other beds. We tried to stop 'em by smacking boots and hats on 'em, but nothing was woikin'! The water would make 'em die down, but only for a few seconds.  
  
"We kept tryin' and tryin' but we'se was beat from the foist, and when the room started gettin' too hot, we knew we had tah leave 'fore we'se was burned ourselves. I checked everywhere tah make shoah no kid had been left behind, and yelled at everyone in the main room tah get out 'cause the place was on fire. When I saw youse runnin' back from Medda's wid the others, I knew I was in for it, but I didn't wanna face ya, so I just made up a lie 'bout how we'se didn't know what had happened."  
  
Jack's betrayal during the strike was nothing compared to this. Runner was my cousin, my own damn blood! Never would it have crossed my mind that he had been lying to me all this time, for it was a low act I never thought him capable of taking to. He went on apologizing, but I had discontinued paying attention; this was too much. I rose to my feet without a word and left him there to drown in the pool of his guilt. I just needed to get away from it all.  
  
I've only taken my anger out on my boys less than ten times during my term as leader. Some of the other leaders don't believe in it, but being a Brooky, it's what I'm all about. Since there was still an hour left before the distribution centers would be selling the afternoon edition, I knew the majority of my boys would be hanging out at the docks, taking a relaxing swim in the river or engaging in card games around the piers.  
  
In minutes, I located Matches and Mason, and striding up to them with that wolfish glare I had perfectly mastered, I closed the distance between us before they had time to scram. Together they jumped to their feet upon seeing me and hesitantly began to say something, but I didn't wait another moment. My clenched fist connected with Matches' cheekbone in one quick blow, his head snapping back violently as he crashed into a pile of crates. Temporarily forgetting Mason, I tackled down the first twin and holding him down with one hand, continuously struck him until his face was drenched with blood. Three boys had to hold me back or else I would have killed the damn scab!  
  
When word got out that Matches had been the one behind destroying our home, I was no longer alone in hating him. Which brings me to remember my oldest delinquents: Maverick, Renegade, Tyrant, and Rebel. These weren't your typical problem-children; these young men were criminals with a passion to destroy. For the week that ensued unmasking Brooklyn's arsonist, this quartet chirped in my ear unceasingly about how I should kill Matches, send him to Harlem, or better yet shove him into the hands of Mr. Snyder at the House of Refuge.  
  
Maverick and Tyrant especially pleaded with me, asking that I allow them to dispose of Matches' body in a way that wouldn't arouse suspicion. I was beginning to feel I had involved myself with the mafia! But they insisted even when I had denied them the pleasures of murder, and soon enough, they had most of Brooklyn backing them up.  
  
A weak leader would have snapped under the pressure like a worthless twig incapable of encountering the heat of circumstances, but I was not in any aspect 'weak' and would not be swayed by the opinions of those who harbored malice-laden hearts. Surely it would take courage to stand up unembarrassed against dozens of Brooky's and proclaim that I, Spot Conlon, would not support any form of physical abuse towards Matches to justify his wrongdoings, but it would only be another lesson I'd be obliged to learn.  
  
The others were frustrated by my straying away from cruelty, for I had reared them so harshly it had now become a way of life to get beaten whenever proven guilty of a matter. Yet I wouldn't falter in my pronouncement; I wouldn't let them tempt me into shaking fists when I knew peace would only come through shaking hands. Matches never left the lodging house unless he was in my company from then on, and numerous times had there been need for me to defend him.  
  
Maverick was determined to have that boy's life, though I know not why for if ever there should be someone worthy of death, it was Maverick himself! He was older than me by a few months and a sheer terror to anyone whom he despised. He respected me, though, and so I really never worried much about him. But ever since I took Matches under my wing, I could already see the calculations of deceit in his eyes.  
  
If I wasn't leader, I might have been able to afford fear into my days, but I had neither the time nor patience for such petty entities. Sometimes, I even felt as if I were reliving the times in which I was an outcast in Brooklyn, in which no one gave a damn about me. It seemed as if all my boys were against my say-so. The entirety of Runner's conversations with me consisted of apologies for not having been truthful to begin with, but I had already forgiven him the same day he had confessed.  
  
Only time would unite Brooklyn again and while we waited for the emotional cuts to heal, I would have to remain courageous as I faced all opposition. It's not easy going against the grain as so, but for some people, it's the only thing they have left. When a group of boys dealt me scathing remarks, I would bark back with my own retort. When Maverick and his sickly company sent their crew to attack one of my still devoted loyalists, I was there to fight them off. One can't be a timid wallflower when hostility rises up against him; instead, you have to press on harder than before and prove to yourself no obstacle is great enough to keep you down.  
  
Matches probably would have rather I simply send him to Manhattan or one of Brooklyn's other allies. It definitely would have saved me all the difficulties and riot. But I wouldn't have anything of the sort. Perhaps it was the pride refusing to succumb to Maverick's wishes, perhaps it was me wrapping about myself the garbs of total authority. However, I would be a fool to refute it also being the force of valor and gallantry taking form within me.  
  
One mustn't quit when it seems as if all odds are against him. One mustn't leave his opponent in the boxing ring just because his adversary seems to have the advantage. What legend would I be leaving behind for future Brooky's if I submitted myself like a cowardly pup giving in to the alpha dog? How could I possibly paint glory on my mental self-portrait if I was too gutless to walk a battlefield? No, I would stand my ground and they would stand theirs, and eventually someone would give in. I made a vow that someone would not be me.  
  
The silent war lasted a little over a month, having ended when Maverick grew weary of such nonsense and said to his minions he simply didn't care any longer what I decided to do to Matches. Breaking from his influence over time, they began to not care as well. Only then did I punish Matches, and only because I would be the one making the decision, not some immature street-rat who needed lackeys to get a point across.  
  
I sincerely consider this lesson the most important to me, for it's something every leader stumbles upon eventually, and it's one that you either pass or fail. There have been presidents in the history of our nation who have declared war merely because they felt pressured by Pulitzer and Heart's articles and the opinion of the masses. I wouldn't be one such man. I would weigh out my options and choose that which appealed to me only because I was able to determine the matter with my own scale of right and wrong.  
  
I didn't need to be persuaded by those I led, nor did I need to enact their wishes. Above all, I was the leader! I would always have the final say in all things! So I would remain strong, not easily pushed this way or that. I would decree orders because they were my own and never would I let anyone- no matter their class and occupation-chase away my courage with shallow threats.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Reviews please? ^_^ Thanks to all who have reviewed so far; I'm glad you all think this story is unique and interesting. By the way, if you have a fic finished or unfinished that you'd like to enter into my fanfic contest, leave your email address and request more info in your review. So far, I have 13 entries but I'd be glad to read more! ^_^ 


	5. The Outcasts

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
As any learned individual would eventually detect, a family simply isn't a complete one if the unit lacks what so many like to deem 'outcasts'. If Manhattan is the home of affable lower-class chaps, and the Bronx is a haven for the morally corrupted, then Brooklyn is without a doubt the refuge for those socially unaccepted. Whether it be for our beliefs, character, or stamina, we have for generations been the recluses among New York's paper-peddlers.  
  
The leaders of other boroughs speak of me and my boys as if we're ghastly beasts from some horror tale, creatures that should be avoided at all costs. The high-born aristocrats of the state have no problem with purchasing a morning or afternoon edition from any other newsboy, but I many times catch the hesitation in their eyes when buying one off a Brooky. The indecision sparks in their irises like a wavering flame while their minds try to process whether they really want to involve themselves with a street rat.  
  
I see the women clutch their purses more tightly as they rummage through its insides for a penny, the men making sure their wallets are safe and snug in the pockets of their pants. The mothers grip their children's hands so firmly, I notice the red marks around the fingers once they quickly walk off and unlock the attachment. It's as if they think we ruffians wish to seek revenge upon them for being blessed with a well-off life; I've never seen anything more ridiculous.  
  
Yet even so, I love sensing the inward shudders of my enemies when someone hisses the name 'Brooklyn'. It's an adrenaline rush when some gutless weakling cowers away from one of my boys when the hint's dropped that they're from my infamous borough. We've worked hard to fortify a reputation for Brooklyn, and we're pretty damn proud when that same reputation drives fear into others' souls.  
  
That being said, I believe it of the utmost necessity to note the various ways in which Brooklyn's developed its rough edge. My Birds gave the borough its central knowledge; the half-pints gave it its often disguised gentleness. My troublemakers gave it the brave valiance we're known for in brawls, but it was my outcasts who graced us with an unmatchable individuality.  
  
Piper, Scapegoat, and Caper were the counterparts to the intolerable Maverick, Renegade, and Tyrant. While the latter trio was driven by a passion to hate, Piper and company instead were like the older brothers to the juveniles. They were kind, caring, defensive, and always ready to offer advice to those who needed it. And good advice it was! Half the time I even found myself asking them pressing inquiries that ate away at my subconscious. They were like the three Wiseman of the biblical stories, somehow more experienced in life even though their age did not mirror such treasured attributes.  
  
Because of their understanding of life and how it sometimes did not act in our favor, however, they were many times made fun of by their rivals. Maverick was especially cruel towards them. He had, and this is an exact count, five times beaten Scapegoat-the quietest of the bunch-into a mound of bloody flesh on the basis that "the loser was gettin' on everyone's nerves". I don't even think it was in Scapegoat's nature to bother anyone if he felt they weren't in the mood, but it was the defense Maverick held to nonetheless.  
  
Piper would at like times coach the younger boys in how to deal with Maverick's abuse, standing up to the fire of opposition no matter what. He would often receive death threats from Renegade, promises that he'd corner him one night and make him wish his "whore of a muddah" never gave birth to him. Perhaps because Piper never retaliated with warnings of his own, he was immediately labeled an exile.  
  
Maverick and his foolish comrades believed violence was the solution to every hardship, but Piper's group added to our notoriety with their own principles. "Brooky's don't get revenge, they's get even." And this getting even would never incorporate using our fists if they had anything to do with it.  
  
I'm quite sure that if Piper, Scapegoat, and Caper were fortunate enough to have the means by which to attend college, they would have gone on to do great things in life; maybe even win the Nobel Prize for Peace awarded to those exceptional individuals who changed society in the twentieth century. They started an admirable movement in Brooklyn, whatever the case, and taught many of my newsboys that the mind was a far more powerful tool than any God-given strength.  
  
The best gambler in New York among the ones crawling about the first rung of the social ladder definitely would have to be the Manhattan Italian called Racetrack. True he may not have ever won a placed bet at the tracks, but if one were to see the obsession with which this kid chased after money, one would know in a heartbeat that he loved taking a chance on the stakes. But each borough is known for its own card players, and in Brooklyn, first prize went to two seventeen-year olds whom we called Ace and Rebel.  
  
Enter this pair into a hostelry for a game of poker and one already knew beforehand that the night's winnings would go to them. There was one problem, though. Ace and Rebel weren't exactly what a righteous man would call 'fair' players. Armed with their own personal deck of cards concealed in an inside pocket of their jackets, they would habitually trade cards with each other under the table, or result to their own pack to wheedle their way out a heated match.  
  
They were brothers, the older Ace having a fierce look upon him that simply dared you to defy his way of life. He was a good fighter, one of the best I had ever seen, and this worked to his advantage when the truth behind the siblings' scam was found out one winter night in the Queens lodging house.  
  
I knew nothing of their cheating, but I remember catching Ace give his brother a meaningful look well into the fourth round of the game. Glancing towards Rebel to obtain the gesture's purpose, I caught the Brooky casually fumbling with a button on his sweater, his fingertips delicately closing onto what I knew to be a card. Before he had a chance to free the card from its confines, the dealer told him to add a wage to the center money pile and Rebel snapped back into position with a suspicious quickness.  
  
That night, a Staten Island kid named Dag was seated beside me and sometime during the final round, he had unsheathed his pocketknife and had expertly flung it Rebel's way, the blade piercing Rebel's coat sleeve and prohibiting his arm from moving. The Brooky looked up startled but couldn't conceal in time the King of Hearts dangling from his fingers when there were already five cards of his own before him. Everyone knew without a word having to be said that he had participated in dishonest gaming.  
  
The others were in an upheaval. Dag wrenched his knife free from the table's wood, placed it back in his boot, and seized Rebel like a violent parent scolding his child. Ace and I jumped to our feet and tried to talk the newsboy out of soaking the kid, but everyone else was all for seeing the cheater to his end. One broken arm and three black eyes later, we were back in Brooklyn.  
  
The other boroughs hated Ace and Rebel for the event, and thereafter would never invite the brothers to hosted poker games. But Brooklyn celebrated their scheming triumph with outstretched arms. Two more outsiders to add to our brood of misfits.  
  
Snack, Gospel, Slick, Shakespeare, Digger, and Conscience are next on my list. Unlike the ones who precede them in this narration, never did they work together. They were Brooklyn's loners. They didn't speak unless spoken to and seemed to have a desire to alter not a thing about their friendless lifestyles. They kept to themselves whenever possible and only uttered words when selling their papers, to which I'm grateful, of course, for it merely meant I'd have to put up with less noise in the lodging house.  
  
Snack was rather overweight for his age. Contrasting the well-built and tall figures we Brooky's tend to have, he was short, stocky, and wouldn't turn down food for the world. As strange as it seems, I seriously always saw him with a taster of some sort in his hands, munching away while ridding himself of his editions, even licking off the excess crumbs on his fingers with salacious appetite.  
  
But some downfall of society has injected into our subconscious a natural inclination to taunt and mock those who differ in appearance to us, and so Snack was the object of many Brooklynites' jeers during his stay in our borough. He wasn't one of the athletes, or the slingshot professionals, or the fighters...to them, that left him to be nothing at all. A waste of life that was better off being excommunicated. And that is what they did. No one acknowledged him, cared for him, or offered so much as a glance his way if ever he was in trouble. It troubled me to see him emotionally struggle much as I had back in the day, but I knew my aid and pity would only make the fellows hate him all the more.  
  
There was one fourteen-year old in whom I placed my total reliance when dealing with the pressures of defending one forced to endure a position like Snack's. He had come to Brooklyn during my third, and last, year of leadership in 1901. With a wild mass of caramel-colored hair and bright blue eyes that looked like sapphires, his name was Gospel and his heart was with the Truth. With a leather-bound bible always under his arm and a cross hanging on a chain about his neck, he was constantly evangelizing about unconditional love and promises that never died.  
  
And he didn't shove the material down anyone's throat like missionaries I had known before. He accepted others' refusal of his beliefs, even expected it half the time. He was patient and never pressured one into submitting to anything unless you encountered it and knew it had to be yours as well. A fine example of a virtuous young man was Gospel.  
  
Best of all, he was a Brooky during a time when Maverick and crew had moved on to be factory workers, thus making my days smoother ones. No one ever bothered Gospel; no one even laid a finger on him in a harmful manner. If anything, my boys took a rare sort of liking to him. True his zealous speeches about faith were like random babbling to their ears, but there was something about Gospel that made our borough whole. It was as if his presence was required before anyone was willing to face another day of hell.  
  
Gospel had a great influence on us as well. Like his predecessor, Piper, he lived to endorse peace and unity in the streets, and often times it was his message alone racing in the back of our minds that prompted us to step away from a forthcoming fight and deny our enemies the chance to riot like hollow scabs.  
  
Slick...a kid who made a mistake I had almost made myself. He had fallen for a girl, and was subsequently ridiculed for his sappy dialogues with the dollface and his ever-present wish to see her whenever he could.  
  
I was careful in constructing guards and defenses that kept my heart from being stolen from anyone. I had almost failed upon entering a relationship with a spirited brunette called Dewey, but in time she tired of my cavalier act and walked out the door while I had been too immature to speak the three words she had wanted to hear.  
  
Getting back to Slick's dilemma, he had it bad for a sweetheart he had met while in Manhattan. An ex-girlfriend of Jack Kelly's, the girl was named Dimples for reasons apparent once she smiled and it hadn't been too long following their first conversation until they had hooked up. Three months later, they still hadn't shared a kiss, and therein dwelled Slick's problem, for the boy didn't know how to go about embracing a girl as so.  
  
Logically, full well knowing that his Brooklyn leader was much experienced in the area of charm and lust, Slick came to me in all honesty and beseeched me to indulge him with any tips I had learned from the trade. I shared with him everything I had learned since my sixteenth birthday, and a few days later the sly dog was returning from Manhattan with a lopsided- grin and glazed over eyes. He had finally won his first kiss.  
  
"Could ya be any more schmaltzy?" one of the boys had called out.  
  
"Oh look, lover boy's finally nailed 'is goil!"  
  
Some of the younger boys made kissing noises, giggling and feigning a swoon with award-winning dramatization.  
  
Slick ignored them all. He could care less whether they allowed him admittance into the popular clichés in Brooklyn. It meant nothing to him...a fleeting daydream that would only last a handful of years until each Brooky went his own way, found a new job, and raised a family. But Slick...he was in love. And though he was aware of how foolish he was being for someone his age, Dimples was his new world.  
  
Shakespeare was just another flat-out oddball. Having learned how to read when he was a child, Shakes (as we called him when we were feeling lazy) spent the most of his days secluded in a bunkroom, engulfed in a created world that was almost like a trance to him. He would become so connected with any one character from a particular play that their way of speaking and conducting themselves would rub off on him.  
  
"Make haste!" he would occasionally say to himself when he was running out of time to sell his morning editions. Another famous line was one he'd reiterate to Maverick time and time again when the foul troublemaker blathered on about how he was invincible...a perfect human; God's gift to mankind. Shakes would only roll his eyes from wherever he was seated and say in a singsong voice, "Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney- sweepers, come to dust."  
  
Then there's Digger, one of the most complicated kids I've ever come across. He had long black hair that trailed past his shoulders in waves and brandy-colored eyes that reddened whenever he grew angry. His occupation prior to becoming a newsie was one any person of sound mind would immediately deem bizarre. Digger worked for an eccentric elderly man who made a living by collecting archaic treasures that he would pawn off for money. What was the source of these fortunes? The graves of deceased aristocrats.  
  
For two bits an hour, Digger would rummage through cemeteries after midnight with a lantern and knapsack of tools and would excavate the coffins of those corpses his boss specified with the help of his co- workers. The night I discovered the shameful act, Digger had already separated from his companions and was lounging about against a tombstone examining his newest prize, a gold medallion adorned with gems.  
  
I happened to pass him on my walk to visit my mother's grave, at first not noticing he was there. But when he called out to me in greeting, I spun around so quickly I almost toppled down onto a mound of freshly dug dirt. How I hate strolling through graveyards in the darkness of the night alone...  
  
Digger and I got to talking and when an hour elapsed, we had bonded in a way I can only call absurd. After all, what lunatic dallies about past curfew upon ground where feet below lay the dead, and then meets an acquaintance with whom he'll be friends for years to come? Why, Spot Conlon, of course! And it shouldn't take one too long to figure that a close comrade of mine simply must be an outcast of some sort.  
  
Ah, and now we come to Conscience's story. In all honesty, this kid scared the hell out of me. He was first brought to my attention when a few of my boys had witnessed him strangle to death an ambassador from Staten Island.  
  
"Why'd ya do it, ya lil' guttersnipe piece a' shit?" I hissed at him, boiling with revulsion for the kid who had just ruined any alliance Staten Island and Brooklyn would have otherwise formed that day.  
  
He only shrugged. "Cause 'e took me father's watch out me pocket and ran off like da amateur 'e is."  
  
"Yea, well maybe if I rearrange ya face three times over, youse'll have a different outlook on things, huh?" I circled him like a vulture scrutinizing the decaying matter it was about to eat, my eyes burning into him and my hands folded behind my back as if I were a school teacher.  
  
"Yea, well I don't see dat happenin'," he replied with a grin. "Especially if I end up fixin' youse up real good 'fore ya know what even hit ya!"  
  
I arched an eyebrow at this, thinking him stupid for speaking his mind and not knowing to whom his gibberish was being directed. "Oh yea?" I got up right in his face and looked down at him condescendingly, trying to work with whatever ounce of weakness I might've found in his brown eyes. "Gimme one good reason why I'se shouldn't bust ya face open right now."  
  
He shrugged again. "Why should ya? The kid aint no newsie of yours, so why are youse so worried 'bout it? From what I hear, da kid was from Staten Island, right?" He jerked his head to the right as if motioning towards something. "Well maybe I just did ya'll a favor. Ya Brooky's been tellin' me e' was comin' fer a truce meeting, but Staten Island isn't necessarily known for their loyalty. Fer all ya know, da scab coulda been a spy!"  
  
I stepped back, unimpressed by his analysis. It wasn't an unknown fact that leaders took chances when inviting an ambassador from another borough over for a meeting! I had been prepared if the kid had turned out a traitor. "Yea, well lemme let ya in on how things woik around dese parts." I shoved him back a foot and came after him menacingly. "If youse aint got an order from me tah kill someone, ya don't do it. I don't care who the hell ya think ya is."  
  
"Listen," he said to me with a hard look of his own. "If I'se were tah repeat this day, I wouldn't change nothing 'bout it. I woulda killed dat bastard just like I did tahday. I don't take orders from no one, especially some street rat wid a dog's name!"  
  
I lunged for him, but four of my boys held me back. It took them half an hour to finally calm down my nerves, and even then, just looking at the kid who was so stupid as to stand up against someone like me unleashed uncontrollable fire within me. I wanted so very much to indent his face, or at least fracture a few of his bones. Later that day, he was once again asked whether he felt any remorse for having killed the Staten Island newsboy.  
  
"I sure as hell don't," was all he would say. We named him Conscience... because he didn't have one, and a few weeks later when the factory where he worked burned down, he came crawling back to Brooklyn looking for a job.  
  
The last five of the countless newsies I've written of taught me an imperative lesson about family and cherishing the ones you love. I had already learned through the others that we're all misshapen pieces that must unite together to form the big picture, and that our difference is what made life worth living. I already knew that I had to accept people no matter who they were, and that variety was essentially the spice of life- something I had longed for while suffering through the tedious days at St. John's.  
  
But something I didn't comprehend until meeting the following five individuals was that family had nothing to do with blood relations, heritage, or ancestry. Family wasn't a graph of descent or a record of one's antecedents. Some families are birthed from hardships, not from a common mother. Some families unite out of need, not because they're forced to. And this reasoning is perhaps what Brooklyn needed most during its growth.  
  
Second-Story was yet another misguided result of physical abuse in the home. Only thirteen years of age when I had first met him, he had lived through a nightmare no fanatical poet could ever connive. His short brown hair more closely resembled a dying garden with patches of decay here and there, all the times his mother had seized his locks and ripped them out in her hysteria. His silver eyes were half blind from a time in which his father had thrown a liquefied cleaning chemical into his face and by looking upon the boy's bare back, one would think he had sometime in his past been a slave, for whip lashes scarred his back like unworldly animal stripes and haunted those who encountered the grisly sight.  
  
Yet even so, Second-Story remained devoted to his younger siblings, defending them at all costs so that they might not be the next victims of his parents' wrath. When his father came home drunk at two in the morning, the boy would make sure to run down the stairs and greet him so that the man's beatings would affect only him and not his sleeping brothers. When his mother wanted to say "I love you" and embrace someone in a way no child should know with the one who brought him into the world, the boy would make it his business to be the one crying those days, while his brothers were off in the streets playing ball.  
  
In a time when we were taught to forget those closest to us and save our own skin, Second-Story persevered in assuring his brothers they'd soon see a brighter future, even if it meant his death. When he stumbled upon our lodging house one day and saw it as the outlet from all his troubles, he joined our brood and claimed he would return with two siblings of his. Not thinking it too big a deal, I nodded in agreement and saw him on his way.  
  
Had he told me that leaving his house was more like planning a great escape, had he told me that his father was a tyrannical dictator who would sooner see his own sons starve to death than use his 'beer money' for groceries, had he told me that he was going back not for revenge but to rescue the brothers he loved so dearly...I would have been there at his side and might have been able to prevent the accident that occurred.  
  
But he went on his own, not knowing then that it would prove his greatest folly. His mother was gone from home, as she had been for the past three weeks, most likely selling herself at the bordello where lust was her life...but his father-perhaps his number one fear-was present and downing a decanter of whiskey in the sitting room of their dilapidated apartment. The boy crept through the entranceway, which lacked a door as most the apartments did in that God-forsaken building, and tiptoed his way into his brothers' quarters.  
  
He was in the process of waking them when his father barged into the room in a stagger and threw his beer bottle across the room in with less than accurate precision.  
  
"What de' hell d'ya think ye' doin', huh?" the man asked in a slur of words.  
  
"Father, please," the Brooky replied, "don't do this. You don't need us, you don't even want us. We're leaving now..." He roused his brothers to their feet and beckoned them to follow him out the door, but their father stood in the way.  
  
"Oh, ye' some kinda hero now, eh? Finn! Aaron! Go into de' sittin' room and wait for me there. Ye' even think of escaping again and I'll kill ye both, ya hear me!?" The two younger boys nodded solemnly, tears streaming down their dirtied faces, and hurried out of the room.  
  
"Father...why are you doing this?"  
  
"You, shut up!" the man yelled, jabbing a finger into the boy's face. "Ye think we're not good enough for ye, eh? Ye want to live on de' streets? Well, that's damn fine with me!" He snatched the boy by the neck and proceeded to close his hands on him as if meaning to strangle the youth, but for whatever reason he gave up this attempt and instead shoved the boy towards the room's only window where he slammed him onto the ledge and held him upside down, half his body in midair.  
  
"Father, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't do this!"  
  
The man grinned sinisterly, and loosened his grip. The boy, in turn, fell from the second-story window onto the piles of rubbish and trash below that's usually cluttered about the sides of building stoops. He cracked a few ribs, twisted an ankle, and shattered an arm bone...but he's ever thankful to God that he didn't lose his life that day. And imagine this: Second-Story still thinks of his brothers and vows to take them into his possession at age eighteen once the social worker he met up with not too long ago presses the charges of abuse against the boys' father.  
  
Patriot and younger sibling Half-and-Half came to be with our borough sometime after the 1898 Spanish-American War. Their uncle had served in the army and had lost his life during a siege. He was their last known relative, a respectable and kind man, and when news reached them of his passing, they were devastated. What set them apart from my other Brooky's- and probably all other newsboys as well-was that they weren't ashamed to cry in public. They had loved their uncle deeply, and not being with him any longer broke their hearts.  
  
This made me thankful for having my younger cousin Lucas as my constant companion. I realized that some were cursed to be orphans for life, but that I was truly fortunate to have a family of my own. Hearing Patriot pour his soul into the war tales he told of his uncle made me want to feel the same way for my own relatives, just as he and his brother did. At least, it is my assumption Half-and-Half felt the same way.  
  
Some of the things he spoke made us wonder about his allegiance to our great nation. He acknowledged the fact that America was his free homeland, but it was his concern that the press sometimes exaggerated or even lied about war news. Which is why he received his name. Half of him (his heart) was with his allies, but the other half (his rationalization) pitied his enemies.  
  
Lastly, there's Tremor and Wizard. Tremor was from the West and was named so because he had a keen sense about him that allowed his subconscious to perceive the underground movements of earth below him-or so it is what he claimed. It was his story that twice he had predicted the coming of an earthquake, and both times his predictions had been accurate. He was orphaned at eleven when the last earthquake he had ever experienced claimed both his parents' life.  
  
Wizard had once been the apprentice of a renowned magician and relentlessly practiced the trade whenever he could find the time. A wanderer during his early adolescence, he had been taken in by a band of gypsies and had made their family his own. But tragedy struck when some racist bastards opened fire on the defenseless group and killed all but Wizard and young Neeko, only because the boys had meanwhile been out purchasing food.  
  
Upon returning and seeing the dead bodies of the ones they loved, they mourned for weeks together...until Neeko contracted pneumonia one winter's night and passed away in his sleep, leaving Wizard on his lonesome. The young magician was sprawled out upon a cardboard box of a deathbed when I had found him in a Manhattan alley and had taken him in. His was a heartrending story, but do consider what is more tragic. Losing the family you so desperately loved, or losing them before you had learned to appreciate their company?  
  
I'm grateful that I haven't fallen prey to the latter circumstance. To me, each of my boys is a newsie, a friend...a brother. I treat them all with equal respect and together we form a brigade to be reckoned with. We defend each other with fierce fidelity and would sooner lay our own lives down before ratting out on a comrade. We're kin though not related; we're a unit though of separate parts. And when we unite as the Brooklyn family, you better watch out, for the need for Love is what binds us...the greatest need of them all.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
One more chapter! ^_^ Please review! 


	6. Epilogue

DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies! Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^  
  
A.N. FINALLY FINISHED! Thank You to EVERYONE who reviewed! You guys rock! It was so much fun reading all your comments and feedback! I'm glad you all have enjoyed this story so much! Look forward to reading more from me in the future. Right now, I'm working on "Just A Little Bet" which will soon be finished. Forthcoming story: "Eternal Avenger" and "Impressions". Anyways, THANK YOU for all the reviews once again!  
  
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*  
  
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories  
  
Alas, my story comes to an end, but the memories are eternal, like the waters of a great unchanging ocean. It brought me much merriment these past few entries to relive my moments of hardships and tribulations, for I was shown through their reiteration that there is yet enough strength within the human spirit to persevere and make beneficial a seemingly misfortunate occasion.  
  
As I go on to pursue whatever destiny Fate has in store for me, I hope that my records never go unnoticed by my successors. May they acquire some grain of wisdom through reading how I vanquished my tribulations; may they be encouraged to never falter in their steps. Never was leadership a leisurely task, never was it a mere hobby for anyone's undertaking. It takes time and labor, and it takes the strength of a stout heart.  
  
Surely I don't mean to daunt Brooklyn's future princes, but as dreamers we are yet responsible to acknowledge Reality's beckoning. Being a leader consumes you, it takes all the endurance you are capable of expiring. Failures will constantly surmount the ashes of your mistakes, and there'll come times when you wish death upon yourself. But never give in, and never hold back! Fight with the passion of a true Brooklynite and know that we are the warriors of New York!  
  
Addressing my younger cousin, Lucas 'Runner' Conlon, I remember how infantile his mannerisms were upon first joining the Brooklyn brood, how mischievous his nature. He acted without first thinking, and very much harbored a rebellious spirit too unruly for even me to tame sometimes. He was brash and foolish, apt to involve himself with brawls that could have otherwise been avoided had he enough sense to practice rationality. I was a powerful, almighty Oberon and Runner was the borough's roguish Puck, scampering here and there to meddle about like a child.  
  
But in time, Runner obtained his maturity as he began to understand the serious nature by which he was expected to conduct leadership affairs. He finally understood that life was not a game anymore, that one wrong slip could end him in the Refuge...or even six feet under a mound of dirt. He learned to hold his tongue until his thoughts processed the right words, and he developed a way of diplomacy that tickled our enemies' ears and fooled them into clever trappings. He was a sharp thinker, and finally applied that gift in a way that would benefit the borough he was to inherit.  
  
Such is life. For the most part, we go through childhood and adolescence living as carefree individuals, doing as we wish and never having to be burdened with the rough nature of street-life. At least, those of us who are fortunate to be raised with a family in a fitting home and with access to education exhibit such beginnings. But being with the newsies for the past years has taught me volumes of lessons, has taught me to appreciate all that I have and all that I have the potential to become!  
  
First there was the matter of individuality. Why strive to be just another specimen of some confounded mold? Why be a second-rate muckety-muck when you could be a first-rate YOU? My ruffian life freed me from the constraints society was trying to bind me with. I was finally at liberty to be the person I wanted to be, and I didn't have to impress anyone but myself!  
  
Often times, as I sold my papers on the street corners I would watch the aristocrats pass by with their tidy suits or dresses and only pity them. Why did they think it a necessity to conform to the masses? The ladies suffocated in those blasted corsets and ridiculous dress accessories...but why? What was wrong with simple slacks and a blouse? To whom were they putting on this meaningless charade? I never understood it, but I always hoped that one day they'd come around to realizing all the possession they strived so hard to acquire in life would only stay behind when they neared their deathbed.  
  
The freedom to be your own person is truly a gift many people take advantage of, but one that I would never forsake. If people choose to judge me by my past, by my appearance, or by whatever idiotic means they see fit, they would be missing out on having a wonderful friendship.  
  
Following close behind was Patience, and the Brooklyn spies who taught me the virtue through their trying personalities. If one wishes to lead dozens of newsies, patience is something he'll need in abundance. It's man's folly to think everything evolves into good within seconds, that it takes no time for hardships to transform into wonderful circumstances. On the contrary, we're often called to exert all our energy into something...and then afterwards wait days, weeks, even months before we see likable outcomes.  
  
I'll be the first to admit that I desired to set up my network of spies within a day's time. Never did I think it would be as great a difficulty as it proved. When the hours kept ticking by and the results were not to my approval, I had every notion to simply give up! I was anger- driven and stressed beyond all limits.  
  
But had I quitted the race right then and there, what would that say about me? How could I have the audacity to face a kingdom of Brooky's with authoritative power if I hadn't even the willpower to deal with them one-on- one? It would reflect poorly on my determination no doubt. It would show that my suave violent front coated nothing but shallow resolve.  
  
No, I needed the patience to help me through it all. Without the persistence, I would have thrown in the towel by the end of day one. Without the tolerance, I would have lashed out at my newsies with a fierce rage. But without the patience, I would never be the leader Brooklyn needed...a leader not afraid to be cruel and disciplining, but one that understood his boys well, and knew each one needed to feel accepted.  
  
Wisdom I've already partially discussed through Runner's development as a succeeding leader. What good are all the riches in the world if you're too foolish to understand how to use them to your benefit? Wisdom and leadership go hand in hand. Numerous times have I seen a borough go under the rule of an ignorant jackass, and each time those kingdoms fell as if they were made of paper.  
  
A leader needs to know how to handle his charges, and how to resolve the differences among them. He should not be bias in any respect, and he must skillfully learn how to avoid favoritism. He must execute his decisions with precision and accuracy, and must examine how those decisions will affect not only him, but those whose lives are entrusted into his hands.  
  
Wisdom will get you far as a leader. As I've learned over and over these past years, it comes to be a close companion to you. As a muse is to its writer, so is wisdom to the one who holds such large responsibility.  
  
Grace under fire in my opinion best defines Courage. When you're back is up against a wall and it seems like there is no way out but through the scorching fire of your enemy's interrogations, yet you have within you an unmatchable serenity, that is courage. When it seems as if all have turned on you and there's not a single comrade to whom you can spill your troubles, yet you have the strength to greet another day, that is courage. When life threatens to drown you with its troubles and you know no ways to make ends meet, yet you maintain your pride in hopes that all will go well in the end, that is courage.  
  
And having gone through all like scenarios, could I be any more courageous? I let nothing get the better of me, and anyone in New York who knows me well can attest to that fact. I wear an infallible shield of valiance upon me, and perhaps that's why they call me fearless, for I fear nothing. Why should I? I know in my heart that Fate will see me through and that no matter what schemes my enemies have planned for me, I'll have the means by which to see myself through.  
  
Lastly, that ageless need all of mankind undoubtedly live for. Family...or in simpler dictation, Love. Of course I'd never speak of it openly, but there is a bond that links me to my newsies, a web of familiarity that binds and attaches us in unexplainable ways. We're a unit, members of a like kin. Though not related in blood, we share the background of a life that didn't suit us, and we share the want for friends who accept us.  
  
The newsies are like a family to me. They're always there when I need someone to hear me rant, and they make sure to keep me in check whenever my temper becomes a wrath. They support me in all that I do, and speak proudly of our borough and its 'king'. Together, what a force we make! Like a modern day cavalry of heavy caliber. We're a union, a fellowship. We watch out for each other, and always defend each other no matter what the costs. You'll never find a more closer family.  
  
And so it is with a heavy heart that I finally relinquish my reign over Brooklyn and entrust it into younger hands. Just weeks ago I reached my nineteenth year in life and no longer do my days of peddling papers suit me. It's become a boy's task to me, and it's time that I become a man and find other work.  
  
I'm a bit hesitant about going out into the big world, for my ranks were high when I was Brooklyn leader and I must once again start at the bottom of the social ladder, limping about the lower rungs like an unworthy beast. It is my wish to attend a university and then head off to study law at some graduate school, but I know small steps are the primary rules for such expensive dreams. As for now, a simple job will get me by until I find other work.  
  
I've finally reunited with 'the one that got away'...or at least, the one who would've gone away had I not been man enough to finally reveal my feelings to her one winter's day at Central Park.  
  
On December 30, 1901, I knelt before the love of my life, offered to her a silver band, and asked her to marry me. Dewey's eyes were tearful when she exclaimed that she couldn't imagine herself spending her life with anyone else and happily accepted my proposal. Life can't get any better. Currently, she still resides with her brother and aunt in a downtown apartment, but once I save enough money, we'll have a 'fairy-tale' wedding (as she so affectionately puts it) and move in together to start a new life as one.  
  
She enlivens my days, that girl. I had spent so much time in life remaining indifferent to love and trying ever hard from falling too deeply for someone, but on the verge of losing her, I realized my nonchalance would only see me as a lonely, bitter man until death. True, love hurts...but the joys it brings with it are worth the trouble.  
  
In a few weeks, Runner will ascend to my position as leader of the Brooklyn newsies. He's nervous as all hell, but I endlessly tell him that as long as he writes the lessons I've learned on the tablet of his heart, he'll make a great leader. I truly believe this. As a Conlon, he naturally has wonderful potential, but he owes much of his passion to his youthfulness (for the young are known for their zeal) and to his high spirits.  
  
I'm briefly reminded of the time shortly before the summer of 1899 when Runner and one of his younger companions approached me with a cane in hand and passed the object over to me with the utmost reverence. When I arched my eyebrows in question, the smaller of the two-who happened to be one of my half pints-said:  
  
"Everyone in New York's talkin' 'bout ya, Spot! Brooky's is stopped in the streets every day and asked 'bout Spot Conlon. Youse is a legend!"  
  
Runner nodded with a grin. "Yea, youse is more than just a leadah now, Spot. You're a damn god!" He shoved his hands down his pant pockets a bit bashfully and diverted his gaze to the hard wooding of the docks. "And well...since we'se all consider ya a king, we thought youse should have a scepter of some sort."  
  
With a smirk, I examined the cane, much honored by their thoughtfulness. It was a fine make, with a polished black shaft and a tip that glimmered like a nugget of gold. I would always carry the cane with me thereafter to remind me of how my boys looked up to me, and of how I needed to conduct myself reasonably if only for that reason. And now I twirl it in my hands, my soul feeling torn by the decision I've made to step down from my ranks.  
  
As I write the last words of this entry, I feel a part of me is being left behind here in Brooklyn. The history of my leadership will ever be remembered in the minds of my newsies, but what of those who are born generations from now? Decades past, will people still talk about the great Spot Conlon and how all of New York revered him like a king? Will people still talk about how Brooklyn came to Manhattan's aid during the 1899 Newsboy Strike, and how eventually we showed the nation that underdogs can still win when the deck's been rigged? Will anyone remember my newsies, those who often proved to be enigmatic and troubled souls, those who made Brooklyn the mystery it still is?  
  
They say legends can stretch over vast lengths of times...but can't they still fade? A century from now, will I be remembered as a wrathful tyrant whom everyone despised, or a gracious leader who cared for every single one of his charges? Will I be remembered as one whom everyone avoided, or as one from whom my friends extracted patience, wisdom, courage, and the feel of family?  
  
Let us hope that my impact on history will be smiled upon, and that history etches out my life as one that touched and inspired the lives of many.  
  
~*~*~*~*~ 


End file.
